MORE  TRUTH 
THAN  POETRY 


JAMES  J.  MONTAGUE 


ccc\> 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


JAMES  J.  MONTAGUE 


MORE  TRUTH 
THAN    POETRY 

BY 

JAMES  J.   MONTAGUE 


WITH    PREFACE   BY 

IRVIN  S.  COBB 


NEW  XSJr  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN   COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1920, 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


TO 

H.  L.  M. 


42C673 


PREFACE 
By  IRVIN  S.  COBB 

As  a  general  proposition  prefaces  to  books  are 
as  unnecessary  from  the  consumer's  point  of  view 
as  shells  are  to  oysters.  But  it  is  fashionable  for 
a  book  to  wear  a  preface  and  an  oyster  to  wear  a 
shell;  the  net  result  being  to  make  it  more  difficult 
for  the  consumer  to  get  to  the  real  meat  of  the 
contents — book  or  bivalve,  as  the  case  may  be. 

This  book  of  Jim  Montague's — he  signs  himself 
James,  but  don't  believe  it;  his  real  name  is  Jim — 
needs  no  preface  from  me  or  anyone  else.  The 
stuff  he  writes  travels  on  its  own  merits.  Every 
day  he  turns  out  a  column  mainly  verse;  every  day 
newspapers  all  over  America  print  it  and  every  day 
hundreds  of  thousands  of  people  read  it  and  find 
it  worth  while.  "  Give  us  this  day  our  daily  Mon 
tague,"  they  say.  Or  if  they  don't  say  it  they  think 
it.  And  if  ever  Jim  quit  answering  their  prayer  a 
roar  of  protest  reaching  from  coast  to  coast  would 
go  up. 

The  answer  is  simple.  It  isn't  so  much  that  what 
Montague  writes  always  is  sane  and  always  is  hu 
morous  and  always  is  timely.  It's  because  there 
radiates  from  what  he  writes  a  kindliness  and  a 
wholesomeness,  a  sweetness — what  for  lack  of  a 

[vii] 


PREFACE 


better  name  we  call  the  human  touch.  That's  Mon 
tague  all  over — he  is  kindly  and  he  is  gentle  and 
he  is  human.  I  state  without  fear  of  successful  con 
tradiction  that  he  is  one  of  the  most  regular  human 
beings  inhabiting  this  planet  at  the  time  of  writing. 
He  is  that  most  rare  thing — a  humorist  who  also 
is  a  humanist. 

Some  men  who  have  the  gift  of  wit  insist  on 
taking  a  bird's-eye  view  of  the  world.  Peering  down 
from  the  rarefied  atmosphere  of  the  higher  criticism 
upon  the  swarming  atoms  miles  below,  such  a  one 
takes  his  pen  in  hand  and  writes,  "  What  fools  those 
mortals  be !  "  With  Montague  it  is  different.  He 
is  of  the  people,  by  the  people,  for  the  people. 
Which  is  exactly  why  he  is  so  popular  with  the 
people.  He  laughs  with  them;  not  at  them. 

The  present  volume  is  made  up  mainly  of  things 
of  his  which  already  have  appeared  in  the  daily 
press.  They  are  here  compiled  and  presented  in 
book  form  because  a  great  many  persons  regard 
them  as  being  worthy  of  perpetuation  in  this  guise. 
I  am  pleased  to  count  myself  one  of  that  large 
anc[ — I  trust — influential  group.  From  so  full  a 
collection  of  worth-while  verse  as  is  here  presented 
it  is  hard  to  make  selections  and  say  that  this  is 
better  than  that,  or  that  that  excels  some  other. 
Without  undertaking  to  pick  winners  from  a  field 
made  up  of  likely  candidates  for  favor,  I  neverthe 
less  am  constrained  to  say  that  my  favorites  are 
"  Healthy  "  and  "  Thoughts  on  Pie  "  in  the  Dough- 

[viii] 


PREFACE 


boy  Ditties  and  "  The  Sleepytown  Express  "  which 
comes  at  the  beginning  of  the  volume.  I  like  the 
first  two  because,  to  my  way  of  thinking,  they  most 
fitly  express  the  real  sentiments  of  the  real  American 
soldier  in  foreign  service,  and  I  like  the  last  named 
because  in  it  I  have  found  a  thing  that  Gene  Field 
might  have  done,  and  a  sentiment  that  every  father 
of  a  baby  has  felt.  No  bachelor  could  have  written 
"  The  Sleepytown  Express."  No  man  who  didn't 
have  babies  could  have  written  it. 

As  I  said  at  the  beginning,  most  prefaces  are 
unnecessary.  I'm  sure  this  one  is.  All  the  same 
I  am  glad  the  opportunity  to  write  this  preface 
came  my  way  because  it  has  given  me  an  oppor 
tunity  to  speak  a  sincere  word  of  approbation  for 
the  work  of  a  man  who  in  twenty-odd  years  of  active 
journalism  has  made  fewer  enemies  and  more 
friends  than  any  other  man  in  journalism  known 
to  me. 


[ix] 


THE  author  acknowledges  the  courtesy  of 
Hearsts  Magazine,  the  New  York  American  and 
the  New  York  World  for  permission  to  reprint 
some  of  the  verse  included  in  this  volume. 


CONTENTS 

THE  SLEEPYTOWN  EXPRESS      .       .  .       .  17 

THE  DREAM     .       .       .       .......      19 

To  A  SONG  SPARROW        .       .       .       .       ?    '..'•.     21 

STORIES      .       .       .       .       ,',  "*  .       .       .       .       .23 

THE  EVENING  SUIT        .       .       .       .  .26 

AROUND  THE  CORNER     .        .       .  ,       .       .28 

THE  OWL .       .        .30 

THE  PICTURES  ON  THE  PANES      .       .       .  .32 

THE  FAIRY  FLEET .      34 

THE  SENTRY 36 

THE  PIXIE'S  AEROPLANE       .       .       .       .       .       .38 

THE  PRISONERS 40 

THE   EXPLORER 42 

WHY  THE  KATYDIDS  SING 44 

MEMORY  STREET 46 

THE  SNOW  FLOWERS 48 

THE  DREAM  MAN 50 

PETER  PAN 52 

CIVILIZATION 54 

THE  END  OF  THE  DAY 56 

FREEDOM 53 

THE  MINE  SWEEPERS ..       .     60 

MY  WEALTHY  NEIGHBORS    .       .       .  .       .62 

CASEY  ON  THE  CORNER 64 

THE  WAIL  OF  A  PUP 66 

DISGRACED 53 

THE  BABY ^70 

ALWAYS  THE  GOAT  .       .......       .       ....       .     72 

[xi] 


CONTENTS 


A  CALEDONIAN'S  FAREWELL  TO  JOHN  BARLEYCORN  .     74 
A  PROBLEM       .       .       .      \.       .       .       «    -   .       .     76 
THE  BABY'S  BOOZE  .       .  |    .       .,  l  .     ..       .       .     78 

THE  SAME  OLD  STORY  .       .      ...       .    -  ,       .     80 

THE  CONUCTOR  AND  THE  LADY    .       ...       .     82 

THE  BEAUTY  AND  THE  BUTCHER  .       .       .  /    .       .     84 
THE  BLESSINGS  OF  BAD  TIMES      .       .       .       ...     86 

THE  ROAD  TO  SUCCESS  ...       .       .       .       .88 

"  AN  WHEN  THEY  FALL  "    .       .       .       ...     90 

As  TO  THE  CAVEMAN     .       .       .      •„       .       .       .     92 
THE  NEW  JURISPRUDENCE    ...       .       .       .94 

FAIR  INES .       .  .    .  '    .     96 

THE  END  OF  PERFECT  BRAY  .       .       .       ...     98 

THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD     .       .       .       .       .  '    .    100 

COMING  AND  GOING        «       .       .       .       .       .       .102 

ESSAYS  ON  LIFE  AND  GARENS 104 

ADS .      ..    106 

TIME  BRINGS  CHANGES  .  .  .  ^  .  .  .108 
PROOF  .  .  .  v.  .  .  .'  .  .  .no 

'TWAS  EVER  THUS .112 

THE  PASSING  OF  AN  INSTITUTION 114 

THE  FLY  . 1       .    116 

EXTRA!  ALL  ABOUT  THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD  .  .118 
THE  SIMPLICITY  OF  CHILDHOOD  .  .  .  \  ,  120 
THE  FARMER'S  IDLE  WIFE  .  .  .  .124 

WHAT'S  THE  USE .       •    I^7 

THE  VOICE  IN  THE  NIGHT  .       .       .       .       .       .129 

IN  BEHALF  OF  THE  MOVIES  .  ...    131 

To  A  SPECTRE  AUNT      .....  .    133 

To  A  MOVIE  CHILD  ....  .135 

THE  OUIJA  BOARD  .       1       • '  ,  '  ,  '       *      "    I37 

A  BLOOMING  SHAME        .       .       .       •       •       •       •    J39 

How  DOTH  THE  LITTLE  BUSY  BEE?    .       .       .       .141 

[xii] 


CONTENTS 


THE  HIGHER  Cow  CULTURE  .  .  •  /    .       .  ,  .  143 

IT  CAN'T  BE  DONE  .       .       .  .  .  ^  '.,  .  145 

THE  LOST  VOICE      .       *  "  ",  .  .  .       .  .147 

THE  MOVIE  SUBSTITUTE  .       ...  .       .  .  149 

THE  VAMP  PASSES  .      >       »  '    •  •  "»      *,  •  I5I 
Doughboy  Ditties 

NELL — AND  OTHERS     .  ^  ./  »  »  .  153 

IN  LINE  ....  1..  ,  ,.'-  .x  .  .  155 

THOUGHTS  ON  PIE       .  *  .  .  .  .  157 

HEALTHY        .  -    '.       .  /*  .  -  .  .  159 


[xiii] 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


MORE   TRUTH   THAN   POETRY 


THE  SLEEPYTOWN  EXPRESS 

JUST   beyond   the    rainbow's    rim    a    river    ripples 

down 
Beneath  a  bridge,  around  a  bend,  and  flows  through 

Sleepytown — 
Through  Sleepytown,  where  goblins  toil  to  fashion 

wondrous  toys 
And  make  up  fascinating  games  for  little  girls  and 

boys. 
And  automobiles,  just  the  size  for  little  hands  to 

drive, 

Await  to  whirl  you  all  about  as  soon  as  you  arrive. 
But  no  one  ever  is  allowed  in  Sleepytown,  unless 
He  goes  to  bed  in  time  to  take  the  Sleepytown 

Express! 

I  know  a  foolish  little  boy  who  always  starts  to 
whine 

When  he  is  asked  to  trot  upstairs  before  it's  half- 
past  nine. 

And  often  he  will  stamp  his  feet  and  shake  his 
tousled  head, 

And  make  a  racket,  even  then,  when  he  is  sent  to 
bed. 


KOBE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


Of  course,  when  he  has  said  his  prayers  it  always 

is  too  late 
To  catch  the  Sleepytown  Express — it  starts  at  half 

past  eight. 
And  so,  in  all  his  long,  long  life — he's  five  years  old 

this  fall — 
That  little  boy  has  never  been  to  Sleepytown  at  all. 

But  other  wiser  little  boys,  and  little  girls  as  well, 
As  soon  as  8  o'clock  has  struck  rush  right  upstairs, 

pell-mell, 
Get  off  their  clothes  and  say  their  prayers,  just  of 

their  own  accord, 
And,  when  the  train  comes  rolling  in,  they're  there 

to  climb  aboard. 
Then  through  a  long,  delightful  night  they  wander 

up  and  down 

And  have  a  most  exciting  time  in  queer  old  Sleepy- 
town; 
And  not  for  cake  or  anything  that  children  could 

possess 
Would    any   of   them   ever   miss   the    Sleepytown 

Express ! 


[18] 


THE  DREAM 


THE  DREAM 

ALL  smudgy  was  the  pillowcase 

That  used  to  be  so  white, 
For  little  Tommy's  little  face 

Was  dirty  every  night. 
In  spite  of  all  his  mother  said 

(And  she  had  lots  to  say), 
He  always  tumbled  into  bed 

The  way  he'd  been  all  day. 

But  sh! — when  he  was  fast  asleep 

A  horrid  goblin  came, 
And  in  a  voice  all  hoarse  and  deep 

Called  Tommy  by  his  name ! 
"  Get  up !  "  he  roared,  "  and  wash  your  face, 

You  dirty  little  bratl 
It's  absolutely  a  disgrace 

To  go  to  bed  like  that!" 

He  dug  his  claws  in  Tommy's  hair, 

And  through  the  shadows  dim 
He  dragged  him  to  the  bathroom,  where 

He  washed  his  face  for  him. 
And  with  a  brush  he  scrubbed  and  scrubbed 

To  clean  off  all  the  dirt; 
[19] 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


Then  with  a  towel  rubbed  and  rubbed, 
And  goodness,  how  it  hurt! 

When  Tommy  wakened  with  a  squeal, 

He  felt  his  tousled  hair, 
And,  honestly,  he  seemed  to  feel 

The  goblin's  claws  still  there  I 
The  long,  long  years  cannot  erase 

The  memory  of  that  fright, 
Still,  little  Tommy's  little  face 

Is  dirty  every  night! 


[20] 


TO  A  SONG, SPARROW 


TO  A  SONG  SPARROW 

'MORNING,  Mr.  Sparrow, 

Swinging  to  and  fro, 
Caroling  a  song  o'  spring, 

Through  the  falling  snow. 
What  is  it  that  you're  singing? 

"  Skies  will  soon  be  blue  "  ? 
Wish  that  we  could  ever  be 

As  full  of  hope  as  you. 

Long  before  the  robin 

Takes  his  northward  way 
You  are  here  to  pipe  the  cheer 

Of  flower  sprinkled  May. 
Still  the  winter  tempests 

Blow  like  all  possessed, 
But  nothing  chills  the  hope  that  thrills 

Your  dauntless  little  breast- 
Last  to  leave  in  autumn, 

First  to  come  in  spring, 
In  snow  or  hail,  or  breeze  or  gale, 

You  sing  and  sing  and  sing! 
Cynic  blue-jays  flout  you, 

Crows  sneer,  dour  and  glum; 
[21] 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


Still  you  shout  your  tidings  out 
Of  better  days  to  come! 

Even  when  your  happy 

Prophecies  go  wrong, 
Beneath  the  lee  of  some  great  tree 

You  lift  your  voice  in  song. 
And  though  the  snowflakes  whiten 

Your  sturdy  little  wing, 
Your  lilting  voice  proclaims,  "  Rejoice! 

One  sparrow  makes  a  spring!" 


[22] 


STORIES 


STORIES 

THERE'S  a  ship  upon  the  ocean,  laden  down  with 

bars  of  gold, 
With  a  wealth  of  precious  jewels  scattered  loosely 

'round  the  hold. 
It  will  weather  every  tempest,  for  the  ship  is  stanch 

and  fine, 
And  will  bring  to  me  a  fortune,  for  the  cargo  all 

is  mine. 
But,  alas!  the  splendid  vessel  I  shall  never,  never 

see, 

For  it's  only  in  a  story, 
Just  a  happy  little  story, 
That  a  little  fellow  told  me,  as  he  sat  upon  my 

knee. 


There's  a  little  kindly  goblin  who  can  scatter  happi 
ness, 

Drive  away  the  horrid  spirits  that  bring  trouble  and 
distress, 

And  can  give  one  wealth  and  wisdom,  and  he  says 
that  he'll  be  sure 

To  relieve  my  every  sorrow  if  I'm  ever  old  or 
poor. 

[23] 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


But  I  fear  I'll  never  find  him,  though  I  seek  him 
everywhere, 

For  he's  only  in  a  story, 
Just  a  cheerful  little  story, 

That  a  little  fellow  told  me  as  I  stroked  his  tousled 
hair. 

There's  a  great  and  friendly  giant,  who,  when  one 

is  wearied  out, 
Always  comes  to  his  assistance  and  will  carry  him, 

about. 
You  don't  need  an  automobile  when  the  giant  comes 

along, 
For  he's  most  accommodating,  and  as  swift  as  he 

is  strong. 
But  I   shall  not  call  the  giant  when  assistance  I 

require, 

For  he's  only  in  a  story, 
Just  a  foolish  little  story, 
That  a  little  fellow  told  me  as  we  sat  beside  the 

fire. 

Comes  a  funny  little  fairy,  when  the  early  starlight 

gleams, 
With  a  big  and  bulging  basket  full  of  most  delightful 

dreams; 
Dreams  of  woods  and  dreams  of  rivers — every  sort 

of  dreams  he's  got, 
And  he's  always  glad  to  give  you  quite  the  nicest 

of  the  lot. 

[24] 


STORIES 


But  I  know  within  my  chamber  I  shall  never  hear 
his  tread, 

For  he's  only  in  a  story, 

Just  a  drowsy  little  story, 
That  a  little  fellow  told  me  as  I  tucked  him  into  bed. 


[25] 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


THE  EVENING  SUIT 

BUT  yesterday  he  wore  a  bib, 

And  strewed  his  dinner  all  around  him; 
He  slept  beside  me  in  his  crib, 

That  is,  sometimes  he  slept,  confound  him 
I  still  have  got  his  cast-off  shoe — 

A  rumpled  wad  of  shabby  leather, 
The  heel  worn  off,  the  toe  worn  through, 

And  seams  that  hardly  hold  together. 


Last  night,  it  was,  I  read  to  him 

That  old  but  unforgotten  thriller 
That  movies  have  no  lure  to  dim, 

The  tale  of  Jack  the  Giant  Killer. 
Last  week  he  got  his  rocking  horse, 

A  steed  no  rider's  hand  had  humbled, 
And  baby  nature  took  its  course 

(He  barked  his  forehead  when  he  tumbled) 


And  now  a  husky,  hulking  brute, 

Fair  looking  though — I  can't  deny  it — 

Has  got  to  have  an  evening  suit, 
And  I,  forsooth,  have  got  to  buy  it. 
[26] 


THE  EVENING  SUIT 


Could  he  wear  mine  ?    The  Fates  forbid, 
I'm  wiser — I  believe — and  older, 

But  when  I  stand  beside  the  kid 
My  head  is  level  with  his  shoulder. 


An  evening  suit — when  yesterday 

He  prattled  in  his  crib — a  baby  I 
I  count  the  years  again,  and  say 

In  wan  bewilderment — "  Well,  maybe." 
An  autocrat  is  Madame  Style — 

Perhaps  that  ought  to  satisfy  me. 
But  where  could  I  have  been  the  while 

That  all  those  years  were  slipping  by  me? 


[27] 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


AROUND  THE  CORNER 

THERE'S  a  dirty  little  fellow,  on  a  dirty  little  street, 
Where  the  very  richest  children  never  have  enough 

to  eat; 
Where   the    rattling,    rag-stuffed  windows   let   the 

winds  of  winter  in 
And  the  summer  sunshine  blazes  on  the  roofs  of 

rusty  tin. 
But  amid  the  want  and  squalor  of  the  crowded,  sorry 

place, 
You  will  find  this  little  fellow  with  a  jolly  laughing 

face, 
True   that   poverty's    a   burden   that   is   dreary   to 

endure, 
But  this  dirty  little  fellow  doesn't  know  that  he  is 

poor. 

When  Jack  Frost  arrives  in  winter  and,  his  pencil  in 
his  hand, 

Paints  the  window  panes  with  pictures  that  are  mar 
velous  and  grand, 

He  will  shout  aloud  his  pleasure  as  he  looks  at  fields 
and  streams 

That  are  like  the  really-true  ones  he  has  visited — in 
dreams. 

F281 


AROUND  THE  CORNER 


And  the  earliest  springtime  sunbeam  is  a  miracle, 

indeed, 

For  it  wakens  from  its  slumber  a  delightful  little  seed 
That  will  come  sprouting  upward  from  the  earth  all 

cold  and  dark, 
And  become  a  tree  or  flower — like  the  real  ones  in 

the  park. 

And  at  night,  when  all  is  darkness,  and  the  trolleys 

rumble  by, 
He  can  see  the  twinkling  flowers  as  they  blossom  in 

the  sky; 
And  he  often  tries  to  count  them,  but  *so  thickly  are 

they  set 
In  the  velvet  field  of  Heaven,  he  has  never  done 

it  yet; 
And  he  wonders,  as  he  drowses,  where  the  angels 

all  can  be, 
That  they  do  not  pluck  these  blossoms — they're  so 

beautiful  to  see; 
He  would  gather  them  by  millions  and  he'd  take 

them  home  to  keep — 
And  the  little  dirty  fellow  happily  goes  off  to  sleep. 

Just  a  little  dirty  fellow,  dwelling -in  eternal  spring 
With  a  wealth  that  all  the  riches  of  the  world  can 
never  bring. 


[29] 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


THE  OWL 

THE  Owl  that  lives  in  the  locust  tree, 
He  hasn't  a  friend  in  the  world — not  he. 
In  the  shelter  of  night  he  hides  his  face, 
A  cowering  figure  of  black  disgrace. 
And  yet  the  Owl,  in  a  happier  time, 
Before  he  turned  to  a  life  of  crime, 
Could  hold  his  tufted  head  as  high 
As  any  robin  that  fluttered  by. 
Clear  was  his  conscience — clear  as  a  bell — 
And  this  is  the  story  of  how  he  fell. 

One  morning  as  on  his  perch  he  sat 
He  watched  a  pilfering,  criminal  cat 
Climbing  a  tree  to  a  robin's  nest, 
And — well,  it's  better  to  guess  the  rest. 
And  the  Owl  he  said  to  himself,  said  he, 
"  If  a  cat  can  do  it,  then  why  not  me?  " 
(His  grammar,  you  notice,  was  quite  absurd. 
But  the  Owl  was  a  most  uncultured  bird.) 
And  that  very  night  I  am  pained  to  state, 
A  robin's  baby  he  stole  and  ate  1 

And  when  in  the  morning  they  found  him  out 

(And  they  proved  his  guilt  beyond  a  doubt), 

[30] 


THE  OWL 


The  birds  came  fluttering  on  his  trail 

And  they  tweaked  his  ears  and  they  pulled  his  tail 

Till  he  hid  away  in  a  swampy  glen, 

And  never  came  out  in  the  light  again. 

And  now  at  the  fall  of  the  evening  dew, 

When  you  hear  him  shrieking,  "To  who  ?  To  who  ?" 

As  he  sits  alone  on  a  locust  limb, 

You'll  know  what  happened  to  him — to  him. 


[31] 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


THE  PICTURES  ON  THE  PANES 

WHEN  the  autumn  leaves  are  drifting  in  the  breeze 
that  hurries  by 

Where  the  silent  trees  are  outlined  sharp  and  clear 
against  the  sky; 

When  the  birds  have  all  departed,  save  a  lonely 
crow  or  two, 

And  the  brook  gleams  cold  and  steely  as  it  winds 
the  meadow  through, 

You  can  see  beside  the  window,  while  the  rosy  twi 
light  wanes, 

Troops  of  little  furry  fairies,  painting  pictures  on 
the  panes. 

Pictures  of  enchanted  forests  filled  with  weird  and 

spectral  light; 
Every  bough  an  arch  of  jewels,  every  blossom  frosty 

white ; 

Pictures  of  amazing  cities  such  as  only  fairies  see 
In  the  world  beyond  the  rainbow  that  is  closed  to 

you  and  me; 
Pictures  of  astounding  creatures,  unlike  any  that  we 

know ; 
Birds  with  sparkling,  frosted  feathers,  beasts  built 

all  of  spotless  snow. 

[32] 


THE  PICTURES  ON  THE  PANES 


Wrapped  in  snug  and  cold  proof  mantles,  to  and 

fro  the  fairies  pass, 
Wielding  tiny  skillful  brushes  on  the  smooth  and 

shining  glass. 
All  night  long  their  filmy  forests  and  slim  towered 

cities  rise, 
Till  the  morning  star  is  hanging  like  a  lantern  in 

the  skies. 
Then  they  pack  their  paints  and  vanish,  and  we'll 

seek  for  them  in  vain 
Till  the  sunshine  of  tomorrow  fades  their  picture 

from  the  pane. 

Oft  we  wonder  as  we  waken  from  some  fascinating 
dream 

Of  a  jeweled  cobweb  forest  and  a  slender  silver 
stream 

That  we're  sure  that  we  remember  where  in  this 
dull  world  of  ours 

We  have  ever  chanced  to  wander  through  such 
bright  and  filmy  bowers, 

Never  even  half-suspecting  that  we  saw  them  long 
ago 

On  the  panes  the  fairies  painted  in  the  winter  twi 
light's  glow. 


[33] 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


THE  FAIRY  FLEET 

IT  won't  be  long  till  old  Jack  Frost  comes  sailing 

from  the  skies, 
A  palette  underneath  his  arms,  all  smeared  with 

glowing  dyes, 
And  seats  himself  beside  the  stream  to  tint  with 

brilliant  hues 

In  many  a  gaudy  camouflage  the  fairy- folks'  canoes; 
And   when    the    bending   boughs    let   through   the 

autumn  sunlight's  gleam, 
The   fairy-folk  will  launch  their  craft  and  hurry 

down  the  stream. 

You've  seen  them  passing  oftentimes,  when  idling 
by  the  shore, 

You  thought  the  zephyrs  picked  them  up  along  the 
forest  floor 

And  tumbled  them  upon  the  waves — for  then  you 
never  knew, 

That   every   little   painted   leaf   bore   up    a    fairy 
crew, 

Or  that  the  fleet  the  little  stream  swept  happily 
away 

Was  peopled  with   a  viewless  host  upon  a   holi 
day! 

[34] 


THE  FAIRY  FLEET 


Stanch  boats  are  these  that  skim  along  and  dance 
and  dip  and  veer 

And  catch  in  eddies  by  the  shore,  or  pause  in  mid- 
career 

To  set  a  little  scarlet  sail  to  tack  across  the  tide, 

While  fishes  watch  them  overhead  and  swiftly  dart 
aside ; 

And  if  too  close  above  the  dam  a  derelict  should 
float 

The  fairy-folk  leap  overboard  and  get  another  boat. 

And  so,  when  brown  October  comes  and  on  the  trees 
o'erhead 

You  see  the  leaves  turn  suddenly  to  gold  and  glow 
ing  red 

Just  watch  the  stream  that  runs  along — almost  be 
neath  your  feet, 

And  presently  you'll  see  it  bears  a  many  colored 
fleet, 

And  though  you  may  not  see  a  soul  in  any  bright 
canoe 

You'll  never,  never  doubt  again  that  fairy  tales  are 
true! 


[353 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


THE  SENTRY 

I  SEE  a  shadowy  form  arise 

As  I  ascend  the  stair, 
A  voice  I  faintly  recognize, 

Calls  gruffly,  "  Who  goes  there?" 
But  when  I  give  the  countersign 

(Which,  luckily,  I  know), 
The  guard  who  holds  the  outer  line 

Resumes  his  sentry  go. 


His  wooden  gun  at  "  shoulder  arms," 

He  watches  on  the  stair, 
His  ear  alert  for  all  alarms, 

From  land  or  sea  or  air; 
And  woe  betide  the  German  spy, 

However  shrewd  and  keen, 
However  serpentinely  sly, 

Who  thinks  to  pass  unseen. 


Then  guard  mount,  and  the  watch  is  done ; 

A  little  sleepy  head 
Is  laid  beside  the  wooden  gun 

Upon  a  trundle  bed; 

[36] 


THE  SENTRY 


And  as  the  twilight  softly  streaks 
With  red  and  gold  the  west, 

With  mother's  kisses  on  his  cheeks 
The  sentry  takes  his  rest. 


God  grant  that  he  may  never  know 

The  evil  face  of  war, 
Or  do  a  lonely  sentry  go 

Upon  a  far-off  shore; 
But  if  he's  called  to  do  his  part 

We  know  that  he  will  bear 
As  valiant  and  as  brave  a  heart 

As  when  he  watched  the  stair. 


[371 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


THE  PIXIES'  AEROPLANE 

SLOPING  from  the   Milky  Way  a  pathway  turns 

aside, 
Goes  winding  'round  the  kennels  where  the  Puppy 

Stars  abide, 
Sweeps  circling  past  Orion's  Belt,  then  turns  and 

twists  again, 

And  if  you'll  follow  it  you'll  find  the  Pixies'  Aero 
plane. 
It's  built  of  filmy  spider  webs,  with  gossamer  for 

wings, 
And  travels  smooth  and  easily  on  shining  starbeam 

springs, 
And  every  night  across  the  sky  you'll  see  it  dance 

and  flit 
Till,  when  it  spirals  home  again,  the  stars  have  all 

been  lit. 

t 

It  hurries  forth  from  east  to  west,  when  first  the 

day  grows  dim, 

To  light  the  tiny  stars  along  the  pale  horizon's  rim; 
And  then  it  circles  farther  up,  and  from  one's  trundle 

bed, 
If  he  looks  sharp,  he  soon  will  see  the  Evening  Star 

glow  red. 

[38] 


THE  PIXIES'  AEROPLANE 


Then  presently  the  Dipper  gleams,  clear  outlined  in 

the  sky, 
While  onward  toward  the  Milky  Way  the  'plane 

goes  flashing  by, 
Until  six  thousand  million  stars  are  lighted,  one  by 

one, 
When  homeward  sails  the  aeroplane — the  Pixies' 

work  is  done. 

Six  thousand  million  stars  that  shed  their  shining 

silver  beams 
To  light  you  on  the  way  you  take  in  quest  of  golden 

dreams — • 

Six  thousand  million  stars  to  gleam  in  Heaven's  vel 
vet  dome 
When  dreams  dissolve — as  dreams  will  do — and  you 

come  creeping  home, 
And  just  before  the  sun  gets  up,  and  yawns,  and 

looks  about, 
Forth  sail  the  Pixies  in  their  'plane  to  put  the  stars 

all  out. 
And  when  the  Dawn  comes  rushing  up,  however 

hard  you  try, 
You  cannot  find  a  single  star  in  all  the  morning  sky. 


[39] 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


THE  PRISONERS 

THE  frogs  are  piping  in  the  pond,  the  robins  in  the 
trees 

Spend  all  the  pleasant  afternoon  in  idleness  and  ease, 

The  woodchuck  ventures  from  his  lair  and  dozes 
in  the  sun 

Without  a  guilty  feeling  that  his  school  work  isn't 
done, 

Across  the  hills  in  shining  squads  the  happy  black 
birds  wing, 

No  dingy  school-room  walls  have  they  to  shut  them 
from  the  Spring. 

But  though  the  wind  comes  warm  and  soft  to  whis 
per  at  the  door 

And  fresh  new  violets  lift  their  heads  above  the 
forest  flour, 

And  little  hearts  are  all  aglow,  and  longing  to  be 
free 

And  search  for  early  blossoms  with  the  newly  wak 
ened  bee, 

The  prison  hours  drag  along  till  four  o'clock — and 
then — 

A  little  play — a  little  sleep — then  back  to  school 
again. 

[40] 


THE  PRISONERS 


And  when  vacation  time  is  here,  with  golden  idle 

hours, 
No  more  beside  the  river  spring  the  first  and  fairest 

flowers, 
The  birds  have  left  their  emptied  nests,  the  grass 

with  dust  is  gray, 

And  gone  is  all  the  wondertime  of  April  and  of  May. 
And  in  that  time  how  sad  it  was  to  hear  the  school 

bell  ring 
And  know  it  sounded  the  command  that  summoned 

one  from  Spring. 

And  sadder  still  it  is  to  think  that  in  the  years  to  be 
When  Spring  shall  call  as  Spring  has  called  each 

year  to  you  and  me 
The  school  will  be   in   session   still — a   school   of 

sterner  hours 
To  prison  longing  hearts  away  from  birds  and  bees 

and  flowers, 
For  there  is  but  one  changeless  rule  for  children 

and  for  men — 
A  little  play — a  little  sleep — then  back  to  school 

again ! 


[41] 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


THE  EXPLORER 

THE  gale  has  borne  him  round  the  Horn, 

The  ice  has  locked  him  off  Point  Barrow; 
All  undismayed  his  course  he's  laid 

Past  Hatteras,  straight  as  flies  the  arrow. 
The  mild  monsoon,  the  wild  typhoon 

His  journeyings  have  helped  or  hindered, 
The  hurricane  has  howled  in  vain; 

He's  only  smiled  and  held  to  wind'ard. 


The  Northern  Lights  he's  seen  o'  nights, 

Where  Behring's  waters  toss  and  tumble, 
And  coasting  far  off  Zanzibar 

He's  heard  the  tropic  thunders  rumble. 
Black  man  and  brown  he's  hunted  down 

When  they've  denied  him  food  and  shelter; 
The  buccaneer,  when  he  drew  near, 

Retreated  seaward,  helter-skelter. 


Alone  he  sails  the  ocean  trails 
Content  to  be  a  grim,  rough  rover, 

Content  to  brave  the  wildest  wave 
That  rolls  the  rocking  ocean  over, 
[42] 


THE  EXPLORER 


Tis  thus  he  dreams  while  sunlight  streams 
Down  through  the  swaying  dooryard  willow 

But  every  night  when  fades  the  light 
He's  safely  anchored  off  Port  Pillow  I 


[43] 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


WHY  THE  KATYDIDS  SING 

I  NEVER  knew  why  katydids  keep  singing  all  night 

long: 
I  guessed  about  it  quite  a  bit,  but  every  guess  was 

wrong, 

Until  one  day  a  little  boy,  who's  wiser  far  than  I, 
Perched  on  my  knee  beside  the  fire  and  kindly  told 

me  why. 
And  then  it  seemed  quite  strange  to  me  that  I  could 

not  divine 
That  fairy-folk,  like  you  and  me,  love  music  when 

they  dine! 

The  fairies  can't  come  out  by  day,  for  if  they  do, 
you  see, 

They  just  dissolve  like  sugar  lumps  that  one  puts 
in  his  tea, 

And  though  they  tried  to  teach  the  birds  to  sing 
for  them  at  night, 

The  birds  had  got  to  build  their  nests,  a  task  that 
needed  light, 

But  katydids,  although  the  dark  is  black  as  any 
thing, 

Can  see  like  owls  and  bats,  and  so  they  don't  care 
when  they  sing  1 

[44] 


WHY  THE  KATYDIDS   SING 


The  fairies  taught  them  songs  and  glees  and  choruses 

and  chants, 
And  how  to  sing  in  perfect  time,  as  bands  play  at  a 

dance, 
And,  as  they  eat  from  fall  of  dusk  until  the  peep  of 

dawn, 
The  katydids,  though  wearied  out,  keep  singing  on 

and  on, 
Until  the  sun's  first  pearly  rays  are  flung  from  east 

to  west, 
And  then,  till  twilight  falls  again,  they  go  and  take 

their  rest. 

And  so,  some  starlit  August  night,  when  down  the 

road  you  pass 
You  hear  a  host  of  choristers  among  the  meadow 

grass 
And  note  that  every  one  of  them  is  singing  quite  in 

time, — 
As  steady  as  the  old  hall  clock,  as  rhythmic  as  a 

rhyme — > 
You  will  not  need  a  nature  book  to  learn  the  reason 

why, 
Because,  now  you  have  read  this  tale,  you'll  know 

as  well  as  I ! 


[45] 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


MEMORY  SWEET 

ALONG  the  street  of  Memory 

The  little  footsteps  come  and  go 
That  wandered  far  away  from  me 

So  long  ago. 
The  ringing  voices  I  can  hear; 

I  feel  again  the  happy  thrill, 
Although  the  world,  for  many  a  year 

Has  seemed  so  still. 


Beside  the  street  of  Memory 

Where  swings  the  old  and  broken  gate, 
Beneath  the  arching  maple  tree, 

I  stand  and  wait. 
The  street  resounds  with  joyful  noise, 

There  comes  a  fluttering  rush — and  then, 
The  laughing  girls,  the  shouting  boys 

Are  home  again. 


Along  the  street  of  Memory 
I  see  the  sunlight's  golden  glow 

And  happier  days  come  back  to  me — • 
From  long  ago. 

[46] 


MEMORY  SWEET 


The  days  of  rapturous  delight, 
Of  fairy  grots,  and  elfin  isles, 

When  life  was  beautiful  and  bright 
With  children's  smiles. 


I  wait  there,  as  the  sun  sinks  low 

Beside  the  street  of  Memory, 
Where  little  feet  tripped  to  and  fro, 

And  all  too  soon  away  from  me. 
And  when  the  twilight  gleams  its  last, 

I  take  my  way,  with  silent  tread, 
Along  the  roadway  of  the  past, 

Where  they  have  fled. 


[471 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


THE  SNOW  FLOWERS 

I  DO  not  wonder  any  more  where  all  the  fairies  go 
When  down  the  fields  and  through  the  trees  the 

winds  of  winter  blow, 
No    longer    I'm    uneasy    lest    the    little     fragile 

things 
Are  wandering  in  the  open,  where  the   frost  can 

nip  their  wings. 
A    curly-haired    philosopher,    as    wise    as    he    is 

small, 
And  knows  the  ways  of  fairy-folks,  has  just  explained 

it  all. 


Before  the  birds  themselves  can  tell  that  winter's 

on  the  way, 
And  long  before  the  autumn  skies  grow  bleak  and 

chill  and  gray, 
The  fairies  hear  a  warning  in  the  winds  that  sing 

at  night 
And  pack  their  wee  belongings  up  and  take  their 

hurried  flight; 
And  in  an  hour,  or  maybe  two,  they're  landed,  every 

one, 
Upon  the  clouds  that  float  along  up  yonder  near 

the  sun. 

[48] 


THE  SNOW  FLOWERS 


And  through  the  months  of  winter  time,  all  warm 

and  bright  up  there, 
They  weave  the  raindrops  into  flowers  and  heap 

them  everywhere 

Upon  the  foamy  rolls  of  mist  in  piles  so  very  great 
That  soon  the  clouds  can  bear  no  more,  and  break 

beneath  the  weight. 
And  when  the  blossoms  shower  down  upon  the  earth 

below 
We  watch  them  falling — you  and  I — and  cry  "  Just 

see  it  snow! " 

I've  never  .steered  an  aeroplane  across  the  winter 

sky 
To  see  the  fairies  at  their  work  as  I  went  sailing 

by. 
But  I  have  watched  the  flakes  that  fall  through  many 

wintry  hours, 
And  I  can  solemnly  aver  that  they  do   look  like 

flowers. 
And  so  I'm  no  more  troubled  lest  the  north  wind's 

icy  breath 
Shall  catch  the  fairies,  unaware,  and  freeze  them 

all  to  death. 


[49] 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


THE  DREAM  MAN 

ABOUT  the  time  the  midnight  mists  are  sifting  down 

the  dew 
And    everyone    is   snug   in   bed   except    a    cat    or 

two, 
When  little  girls  and  little  boys,  all  wearied  out 

with  play 

Are  waiting,  oh!  so  quietly,  until  another  day — 
Along    the    street    outside    there    comes    a    funny 

shuffling  sound, 
The   footsteps  of  the  little   man  that  brings  the 

dreams  around. 

All  sorts  and  kinds  of  dreams  he  has — he  keeps 

them  in  a  sack, 
And  when  he  stops  outside  a  door  he  takes  it  from 

his  back 
And    picks    out    dreams    of    swimmin'    holes,    and 

dreams  of  grizzly  bears 
And  dreams  of  toys  and  Santa  Glaus  for  every  child 

upstairs, 
He  has  to  hurry  through  his  work — there's  lots  to 

do — and  yet 
He  gives  to  every  single  child  the  dream  it  ought 

to  get. 

[50] 


THE  DREAM  MAN 


He  always  knows  the  little  boy  who   robbed  the 

pantry  shelf, 
When  no  one  was  around  to  see,  and  simply  stuffed 

himself, 
And  in  that  little  rascal's  dream  he  puts  a  horrid 

sprite, 
Who  perches  grimly  on  his  chest  and  pummels  him 

all  night; 
While  in  the  dreams  of  little  girls  who  hate  to  go 

to  bed 
He  drops  great  ugly  crocodiles  with  eyes  of  flaming 

red. 

But  when  he  finds  a  little  child  that's  done  the  best 

it  could 

He  fixes  up  a  pleasant  dream  of  fairies  in  a  wood, 
And  animals  that  talk  to  one — and  even   sing   a 

song — 
A  dream  of  nothing  else  to  do  but  play  the  whole 

day  long, 
And  not  a  child  by  any  craft,  or  stratagems  or 

schemes 
Can  ever  fool  the  little  man  that  brings  around  the 

dreams ! 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


PETER  PAN 

OH!  little,  wistful  fellow,  reaching  out  a  slender 

hand 
Beyond  the  rainbow  bridge  that  leads  to  Never, 

Never  Land, 
What  magic  drink  have  you  distilled  from  morning 

meadow  dew, 
To  keep  old  vandal  Father  Time  from  laying  hand 

on  you  ? 
How  often  must  you  mix  the  charm,  and  from  a 

buttercup 
Sip  secretly,  to  hold  you  safe  from  ever  growing  up? 

Oh !  wonderful  philosopher,  how  was  it  that  you 

knew 
That  all  the  shadowy  fairy-folk  were  really,  really 

true? 
Who  told  you  that  in  Grown-Up  Land  the  things 

we  call  affairs 
Are    only    trifling   vanities,    or    hard    and    sordid 

cares? 
Who  made  you  want  to  stay  a  boy?    Who  taught 

you  that  sad  truth 
That  one  goes  on  a  weary  road  who  travels  forth 

from  Youth? 

[52] 


PETER  PAN 


Oh!  little,  loving  minister  of  simple  childish  joys, 

Worth  more  than  all  the  lesson  books  to  little  girls 
and  boys  I 

The  knowledge  that  is  treasured  most  in  wonder- 
loving  hearts 

No  dog-eared  primer  pictures  forth,  no  pedagogue 
imparts, 

And  many  a  child  would  never  learn  that  fairy  tales 
are  true 

In  all  their  dull  and  prosy  lives,  unless  they  learned 
from  you. 

Oh!  welcome  little  wizard!  How  you  wave  the 
years  away, 

And  take  us  Grown-Ups  back  again  to  golden  yes 
terday  ! 

A  web  of  half-forgotten  dreams  before  our  eyes  you 
weave, 

And  we  behold  your  fairy  friends;  behold  them  and 
believe ! 

Again  their  whispering  in  the  trees  we  hear  and 
understand, 

Again  we  walk  the  rose-strewn  road  through  Never, 
Never  Land. 


[53] 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


CIVILIZATION 

WHAT  shall  we  do  to  punish  them — these  babes  that 

disobey 
The  mandate  of  our  sacred  law  that  each  must  pay 

his  way? 
Unbidden  guests — unwelcome    guests — they    boldly 

come  to  share 
The  bread  of  hungry  families  where  none  has  bread 

to  spare. 
They  ask  for  love,  they  ask  for  care,  as  if  these 

things  were  free. 
And  we  who  hold  that  law  is  law — what  shall  our 

judgment  be? 

We'll  shut  them  up  in  babyhood  through  summer's 

withering  heat, 

Or  winter's  cold,  in  tenements  along  a  dirty  street. 
And  they  shall  learn  what  sickness  means,  and  misery 

and  pain; 
And  Want  shall  sit  beside  their  beds,  and  grin  in 

cold  disdain. 
And  soon  the  tears  shall  cease  to  dim  their  round 

and  wondering  eyes, 
And  none  shall  come  to  comfort  them  or  still  their 

puny  cries. 

[54] 


CIVILIZATION 


And  some  shall  grow  to  weazened  youth,  and  toil 
the  long  days  through 

For  there  will  be  no  lack  of  men  to  find  them  work 
to  do. 

And  some,  in  whose  neglected  souls  the  baser  pas 
sions  flame, 

Shall  learn  the  dreadful  trades  of  crime,  or  walk 
the  ways  of  shame. 

And  others  shall  escape  our  wrath — for  Death 
stands  always  by 

To  offer  to  the  frail  and  weak  the  mercy  we  deny. 

And  he  shall  bear  them  whence  they  came,  where 

skies  are  always  fair 
And  love  for  all  created  things  is  free  as  Heaven's 

air. 
And  haply  they  shall  learn  to  laugh,  and  play  among 

the  flowers 
Afar  from  all  the  suffering  of  this  grim  earth  of 

ours. 
And  having  once  found  happiness  they'll  never  come 

again 
As  questing  souls  to  overcrowd  this  world  of  law 

and  men ! 


[55] 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


THE  END  OF  THE  DAY 

WHEN  the  fiery  day  is  ended,  and  in  every  East  Side 

street 
Throngs  of  haggard  men  and  women  still  are 

drooping  with  the  heat, 
Round  the  corner  come  the  White  Wings  dragging 

snaky  coils  of  hose, 

And  along  the  steaming  pavement  soon  a  gleam 
ing  fountain  flows. 
Then  the  children  swarm  in  legions  from  the  stoops 

along  the  way, 
Wading  through  the  foaming  rivers,  dancing  in 

the  showering  spray, 
Running  over  spouting  rainbows  where  a  leak  has 

burst  the  line, 

Shouting  to  the  weary  grown-ups,  "  Come  on  in 
— the  water's  fine !  " 


They  have  never  known  the  rapture  of  a  romp  along 

the  shore, 

Where  the  hissing  spindrift  rises  and  the  breakers 
roll  and  roar. 

[56] 


THE  END  OF  THE  DAY 


Cramped   within   the   brick-bound   city,   they   have 

never  felt  the  joys 

That  the  swimming  hole  has  ready  for  the  sun 
burned  country  boys. 
But  they  still  are  little  children,  and  no  torrid  August 

sun 
Has  the  power  to  deprive  them  of  their  honest 

right  to  fun. 
And  though  pale  and  frail  and  drooping,  still  with 

eager  shouts  they  throng 

To  the  thrilling,  cooling  water,  when  the  White 
Wings  come   along. 


Years  have  bent  and  changed  us  grown-ups — though 

the  day  brings  heat  or  rain, 
Be  it  hot  or  blustery  weather,  still  we  grumble 

and  complain, 
Fretting  over  little  troubles,  always  murmuring  the 

song 
With  the  whining,  dreary  burden  of  "  Whatever 

Is,  Is  Wrong." 
But  no  bitter   Winter  blizzard,    never   sweltering 

August  heat, 
Can  abate  the  bubbling  spirits  of  the  youngsters 

of  the  street. 
And  though  always  round  about  them  stern-faced 

poverty  abounds, 

They   are   just  light-hearted  children  when   the 
White  Wings  make  their  rounds. 

[57] 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


FREEDOM 

THE  pain  that  distorted 

The  frail  little  form 
Has  vanished  away 

Like  a  midsummer  storm. 
The  work-weary  fingers 

Lie  white  on  his  breast; 
At  last  they  are  idle — 

For  now  he  can  rest. 


Scarce  more  than  a  baby, 

They  found  him  one  day 
Amid  the  foul  reek 

Of  an  alley — at  play, 
They  seared  his  child's  soul 

With  their  factory's  blight, 
They  made  him  the  thing 

That  he  was — till  tonight. 


And  now  it  is  over; 

The  small  hands  are  still 
That  labored  so  long 

In  the  terrible  mill. 

[58]   . 


FREEDOM 


The  pain  has  departed, 
The  fever  is  past; 

The  wan  little  toiler 
Is  resting  at  last! 


[59] 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


THE  MINE  SWEEPERS 

THEY  never  had  a  half  a  chance  at  glory; 

To  them  the  joy  of  battle  was  denied; 
The  nation  never  thrilled  to  read  the  story 

Of  how  they  lived  and  toiled  and  how  they  died; 
Unseen,  unmarked,  they  went  where  duty  called  them, 

On  mine-encircled  seas  their  nets  were  spread; 
No  storms  delayed,  no  dangers  grim  appalled  them, 

Though  death  was  always  lurking  just  ahead. 


Day  in,  day  out,  their  dreary  vigil  keeping, 

As  on  across  the  tide  their  vessels  stole, 
Alert  of  mind,  untroubled  and  unsleeping, 

They  calmly  kept  their  perilous  patrol. 
And  if  there  came  a  flash,  a  roar  of  thunder, 

And  smothered  in  a  whirl  of  hissing  foam 
A  ship  and  all  aboard  of  her  went  under, 

No  cable  sent  the  tragic  story  home. 


They  brought  to  port  no  submarine  as  booty, 
Their  shouts  of  triumph  ringing  in  the  breeze, 

It  never  was  their  high  and  glorious  duty 

To  scourge  these  slinking  serpents  from  the  seas. 
[60] 


THE  MINE  SWEEPERS 


They  wore  no  crown  of  fame,  yet  their  devotion 
For  victory's  mighty  progress  cleared  the  way, 

Made  safe  an  army's  path  across  the  ocean 
And  baffled  craft  and  cunning  of  their  prey. 


They  wore  no  crown  of  fame — and  yet  their  story 
When  half  its  glowing  chapters  have  been  told 

Will  write  their  names  upon  the  roll  of  glory 
In  fine  resplendent  characters  of  gold! 


[61] 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


MY  WEALTHY  NEIGHBORS 

WHEN,  nose  to  grindstone,  I  must  sit 

Engaged  upon  my  daily  labors 
1  cannot  help  but  sigh  a  bit, 

In  envy  of  my  wealthy  neighbors. 
They  live  up  yonder  by  the  hill 

Until  October — never  later 
For  when  the  autumn  breeze  blows  chill 

They're  off  to  follow  the  Equator. 


They  never  have  a  thing  to  do 

But  gad  about  with  lordly  leisure, 
The  whole  delightful  summer  through, 

Their  life  is  just  one  round  of  pleasure. 
I  see  them  often  in  the  lane 

That  winds  along  the  vale  below  us 
And  want  to  speak — but  I  refrain, 

For  they  don't  seem  to  care  to  know  us. 


They'd  not  receive  me  should  I  call, 
Their  manners  are  extremely  airy, 

And  this  I  can't  explain  at  all, 

For  they're  so  full  of  life  and  merry. 
[62] 


MY  WEALTHY  NEIGHBORS 


All  day  I  watch  them  hurry  by, 

Among  the  fields  and  trees  and  flowers, 

And  when  the  sunset  paints  the  sky 
They'll  often  sit  and  sing  for  hours. 


I  envy  them  their  happy  lot, 

I'm  sometimes  filled  with  base  resentment 
That  these  exclusive  folks  have  got 

So  much  that  makes  for  sweet  contentment. 
But  when  a  tomcat  happens  by 

And  home  the  frightened  father  hurries 
No  longer  do  I  sit  and  sigh, 

For  even  robins  have  their  worries. 


[63] 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


CASEY  ON  THE  CORNER 

THE  chauffeurs   jam   their    feet    down  hard;   the 

brakeshoes  creak  and  grind, 
The  surging  traffic  stream  is  stalled  for  twenty  yards 

behind; 
The  rumble  of  the  trucks  is  stilled,  while  with  a 

massive  hand 

A  husky  son  of  Erin  gives  imperious  command, 
And  passers-by  stand  eager-eyed,  in  rain  or  snow 

or  sleet, 
To  watch  Patrolman  Casey  help  the  kids  across 

the  street. 

Like  little  boats  about  a  ship  they  circle  'round  his 

form 
And  safely  make  their  way  to  port,  however  thick 

the  storm, 
Five  youngsters  clinging  to  his  coat,  a  toddler  in 

each  arm 
They  pass  the  panting  juggernauts,  secure  from  hurt 

or  harm. 
And  when  the  last  of  all  the  fleet  has  reached  the 

friendly  shore 
The  whistle  shrills  its  signal,  and  the  stream  roars 

on  once  more. 

[64] 


CASEY  ON  THE  CORNER 


He's  no  Apollo  Belvedere,  all  critics  will  agree, 
And  many  a  foolish  chauffeur  knows  how  hard  his 

fist  can  be; 

While  even  motoring  gentlemen  who  go  a  bit  too  far 
Regret  their  indiscretion  when  he  leaps  aboard  the 

can 

But  just  the  same,  to  most  of  us,  it  always  is  a  treat 
To  watch  Patrolman  Casey  help  the  kids  across 

the  street. 


[65] 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


THE  WAIL  OF  A  PUP 

MAN  thinks  he  plays  a  lot  of  parts 

Before  his  years  are  rounded  up; 
But  say!     He  really  never  starts, 

He  ought  to  try  to  be  a  pup — 
To  be  a  pup,  and  have  a  boy 

With  fresh  ideas  every  day 
Who  takes  a  wild  and  fiendish  joy 

Inventing  parts  for  him  to  play. 


IVe  been  a  Boche  in  Belleau  Wood 

And  had  Yank  bullets  shot  at  me; 
IVe  been  a  Turk  and  I  have  stood 

The  gunfire  at  Gallipoli, 
IVe  been  the  Kaiser  oftentimes 

And  had  a  noose  about  my  neck, 
The  while  I  listened  to  my  crimes 

And  rapidly  became  a  wreck. 


I've  been  a  hook  and  ladder  horse 
And  had  them  run  me  off  my  feet; 

IVe  been  a  thief,  while  half  the  force 
Pursued  me  madly  down  the  street, 
[66] 


THE  WAIL  OF  A  PUP 


I've  figured  at  a  barbecue — 

The  part  assigned  me  was  the  ox — 

But  just  as  dinner  time  was  due 
I  always  wriggled  from  the  box. 


I've  been  a  lion  and  a  bear, 

A  tiger  and  a  Hottentot, 
And  other  creatures  strange  and  rare, 

But  always  something  that  got  shot. 
I've  been  old  Jonah,  and  the  whale — - 

A  cracker  crate — has  thrown  me  up, 
IVe  been  marooned,  I've  been  in  jail — 

And  still  it's  fun  to  be  a  pup ! 


[67] 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


DISGRACED 

MY  teacher  says  to  me  to-day 

So's  all  the  class  could  hear: — 
"  I  thank  you  for  that  nice  bouquet 

You  brought  this  morning,  dear." 
Of  course  she'd  made  a  bad  mistake. 

Somebody' d  thought  they'd  be 
Almighty  smart  if  they  could  make 

A  teacher's  pet  of  me. 


I  licked  three  fellers  at  recess, 

They'll  hold  their  tongues,  I'll  bet, 
But  forty-'leven  girls,  I  guess, 

Yelled  at  me:  "  Teacher's  pet!  " 
I  grabbed  a  couple  by  the  hair, 

But  had  to  let  'em  go 
Before  they  even  got  a  scare, 

You  can't  lick  girls,  you  know. 


An'  when  we  went  inside  again 
The  kids  would  grin  an'  say: — 

"  Who's  teacher's  little  dear?"  an'  then 
They'd  point  to  that  bouquet. 
[68] 


DISGRACED 


An'  then  in  whispers  they'd  repeat 
The  words  the  teacher  said, 

While  I  just  sat  there  in  my  seat 
And  wished  that  I  was  dead  I 


I'm  goin'  to  ask  my  folks  to  go 

And  live  some  other  place 
Where  all  the  kids  I  see  won't  know 

About  this  here  disgrace. 
If  I  could  run  away  to  war 

Then  maybe  I'd  forget, 
But  I  can't  stick  'round  here  no  more 

And  be  a  teacher's  pet! 


[69] 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


THE  BABY 

HE'S  just  a  little,  helpless  mite, 

Whose  tender,  trusting  smile 
And  coos  of  rapturous  delight 

Are  innocent  of  guile. 
Too  frail  as  yet  to  walk  alone, 

His  little  tongue  untaught 
To  make  his  baby  wishes  known 

Or  tell  his  tiniest  thought 


But  pluck  him  from  the  cellar  floor 

Where  eager  and  alert 
He  smears  his  little  person  o'er 

With  soot  and  grime  and  dirt, 
And  for  what  seems  an  hour  or  two 

The  imp  will  hold  his  breath 
Until  his  face  is  fairly  blue 

And  you're  half  scared  to  death! 


So  soft  and  flower-like  he  seems, 

So  gentle  and  so  mild, 
A  thing  of  fairy-woven  dreams, 

A  weak,  defenseless  child, 


THE  BABY 


No  will  to  gain  his  heart's  desire, 
All  wisdom  yet  to  learn, 

The  feeble,  newly  kindled  fire 
As  yet  can  barely  burn, 


But  try  to  take  away  the  shears 

Which  he  so  firmly  grips 
The  while  the  yowling  kitten's  ears 

So  joyously  he  clips. 
A  certain  firmness  he'll  reveal; 

For  on  the  rug  he'll  drop 
And  stiffen  like  a  frozen  eel, 

And  scream  until  you  stop! 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


ALWAYS  THE  GOAT 

WHENEVER  the  trolleymen  go  on  a  strike 

And  the  managers  haughtily  say 
They  can  tie  up  the  lines  for  a  month  if  they  like 

And  they  won't  get  a  penny  more  pay, 
The  general  outcome  is  always  the  same, 

For  whether  the  men  get  their  raise 
Or  swallow  the  grouch  and  go  back  to  the  game, 

The  public  is  walloped  both  ways. 


Whenever  the  railroad  men  voice  discontent 

And  the  Manager  says  with  a  sneer 
That  he'll  never  come  through  with  another  red  cent 

If  he  don't  turn  a  wheel  for  a  year, 
One  side  or  the  other  wins  out  in  the  end, 

But  whether  they  grant  or  refuse 
The  wages  for  which  the  conductors  contend, 

The  public,  dear  reader,  will  lose. 


Whenever  the  milkmen  get  suddenly  sore 
And  swear  with  irascible  unction 

That  unless  they  are  paid  quite  a  little  bit  more 
They  plan  upon  ceasing  to  function, 

[72] 


ALWAYS  THE  GOAT 


Perhaps  they  will  get  it,  perhaps  they  will  not; 

But  what  is  the  difference  to  us? 
We  know  when  it's  over  the  public  has  got 

To  step  in  and  pay  for  the  fuss. 


For  whether  the  strikers  declare  it  a  strike 

Or  the  bosses  declare  it  a  lockout, 
We  are  sure  in  advance  that  the  public's  one  chance 

Is  to  put  up  its  chin  for  the  knockout. 


[73] 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


A  CALEDONIAN'S  FAREWELL  TO  JOHN 
BARLEYCORN 

GUIDBY,  auld  John,  I  loved  ye  weel, 

When  I  was  young,  and  strong  and  husky, 
And  when  my  tuppence  bought  a  deal 

O'  braw,  invigoratin'  whusky. 
With  one  wee  bottle  by  my  side 

I'd  sleep  beneath  the  bonnie  heather; 
A  saxpence  kept  me  stupefied 

For  days  together. 


The  cost  o'  kilts,  it  vexed  me  sair, 

And  when  I  parted  with  a  shillin' 
For  food,  I  took  especial  care 

To  see  that  it  was  verra  fillin'. 
I  grudged  whate'er  I  squandered  on 

The  coals,  the  taxes  and  the  victual, 
But  I  maun  give  ye  credit,  John, 

Ye  cost  me  little. 


But  losh!  the  price  they're  askin'  now, 
For  e'en  the  cheapest  kind  o'  toddy, 

A  laird  himseP  might  well  allow 
Would  fair  infuriate  a  body. 
[74] 


FAREWELL  TO  JOHN  BARLEYCORN 

An  so,  auld  John,  I  trust  ye'll  not 
Believe  me  cauld,  or  flinty-hearted, 

But  ye're  too  costly  for  a  Scot, 
It's  time  we  parted. 


[753 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


A  PROBLEM 

THOUGH  science  tells  us,  out  of  hand, 

That  there  is  not  an  indication 
That  animals  can  understand 

A  word  of  human  conversation, 
Last  night  when  we  conversed  about 

A  needful  substitute  for  meat, 
Our  little  Fido  hurried  out 

And  went  careering  down  the  street. 


And  when  we  said  that  in  Bombay 

A  hungry  proletariat 
Much  relishes  a  consomme 

Whose  chief  ingredient  is  cat, 
There  was  a  rush  across  the  floor, 

A  muffled  sound  of  feline  hissing, 
And  tabby  bolted  through  the  door 

And  now  is  numbered  with  the  missing. 


We  also  said  all  household  pets 
Were  works  of  supererogation, 

And,  though  it  filled  us  with  regrets, 
They  ought  to  help  to  feed  the  nation. 


A  PROBLEM 


And  then  we  heard  a  scream  of  rage, 
And  with  a  look  of  blank  despair, 

The  parrot  burst  his  gilded  cage 
And  quickly  went  away  from  there. 


We  don't  insist  that  these  are  acts 

Which  throw  great  Science  in  confusion; 
We  merely  state  the  simple  facts 

And  let  you  draw  your  own  conclusion. 
We  know  that  Mr.  Hornaday 

And  zoologic  sharps  will  swat  us 
But  all  the  same  we're  free  to  say 

We  sort  of  think  the  creatures  got  us! 


[77] 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


THE  BABY'S  BOOZE 

In  Newport  they  are  discussing  the  regulating  of 
the  children's  drinking. — NEWS  ITEM. 

Tis  never  a  hygienic  plan  to  let  the  baby  rush  the 

can, 
Lest  by  and  by  with  gin  and  rye 

He  grows  unduly  chummy; 
Before  he  gratifies  his  thirst  his  gentle  governess 

should  first 

Take  care  to  choose  a  brand  of  booze 
That  won't  affect  his  tummy. 

A  highball  every  day  at  ten,  a  brace  of  cocktails 

now  and  then 
And  at  his  lunch  a  mellow  punch 

Of  sugar,  milk  and  whisky, 
May  not  impair  his  childish  charm  or  do  his  morals 

any  harm 

But  absinthe  slings  are  dreadful  things 
And  very,  very  risky. 

If  baby  finds  he  cannot  dine  without  a  glass  or  two 

of  wine, 

Some  good  champagne  might  clear  his  brain, 
But  heed  this  timely  warning: 


THE  BABY'S   BOOZE 


If  ever  he's  allowed  to  drink  the  fifteen-cents-a-quart 

red  ink 

Before  he  goes  to  his  repose, 
He'll  have  a  head  next  morning. 

If  you  should  find  that  he  prefers  the  yellow,  green 

and  brown  liqueurs, 
Correct  his  taste  with  eager  haste; 

For  these  are  dissipations 
\Vhich  those  most  soaked  in  stimulants  unanimously 

view  askance; 
They  are  not  fit  a  little  bit 
For  infantile  potations. 

If  thus  the  baby's  appetite   for  spirits  is  directed 

right, 
And  if  his  turn  does  not  succumb 

To  crumbling  cramps  and  colics, 
He'll  learn  to  drink  the  proper  way,  and  if  he's 

lucky,  some  fine  day 
Perhaps  he'll  win  a  nice  place  in 
A  home  for  alcoholics! 


[79] 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


THE  SAME  OLD  STORY 

WHEN  Julius  Caesar  went  to  town 

To  purchase  steaks  and  chops  and  such, 
He  tried  to  beat  the  butchers  down 

And  swore  their  prices  were  too  much. 
"  Two  cents  a  pound  for  steak,"  he  roared, 

"  Why,  man,  that's  nothing  short  of  crime, 
You  butchers  are  a  greedy  horde, 

It  cost  but  one  in  Noah's  time  1  " 


When  Ollie  Cromwell  went  to  shop 

For  beef  and  mutton  and  the  like, 
He  said  if  prices  didn't  drop 

He'd  spit  the  butchers  on  a  spike. 
"  Six  cents  a  pound  for  steak,"  he  said. 

"  It's  more  than  honest  men  can  pay. 
You  folks  are  robbers,  on  the  dead, 

It  cost  but  two  in  Caesar's  day!  " 


Today  when  we  go  out  and  find 
That  beef  is  eighty  cents  a  pound, 

We  tarry  there  and  speak  our  mind 
And  scatter  savage  words  around, 

[80] 


THE  SAME  OLD  STORY 


'Twas  ever  thus,  in  every  age, 

In  every  time  and  clime  and  season 

The  price  of  meat  has  made  men  rage 
And  always  with  abundant  reason. 


[80 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


THE  CONDUCTOR  AND  THE  LADY 

BILL  BLICKETT  was  conductor  of  a  commutation 

train, 
Claire  Clickett  was  a  typist,  with  an  air  of  high 

disdain. 
She  shuddered  when  he  winked  at  her  as  he  swung 

down  the  aisle. 
Her  manner  said:  "How  dare  you,  sir?"  when 

he  essayed  to  smile. 
'And  with  forbidding  haughtiness  her  chewing  gum 

she'd  munch, 

When  Blickett  snipped  her  ticket  with  a  senti 
mental  punch. 

She  loved  a  red-haired  broker's  clerk  whose  name 

was  Jaspar  Gee; 

He  often  rode  beside  her  on  the   seven-thirty- 
three. 
He  looked  upon  her  fondly,  and  told  her  she  was 

pretty, 
And  sometimes  held  her  hand  in  his  clear  in  to 

Jersey  City. 
And  Blickett  punched  her  ticket,  with  bitter  heart 

and  grim 

And  murmured  to  the  brakeman:  "Just  wait  till 
I  get  him." 

[82] 


THE  CONDUCTOR  AND  THE  LADY 

One  day  a  train  despatcher  tried  to  cultivate  the 

knack 
Of  passing  two  expresses  on  a  single  stretch  of 

track. 
And  Claire  and  Jaspar  found  themselves — as  one 

of  the  results — 

Projected  into  Newark  Bay  as  from  two  catapults. 
She  cried  to  him  to  save  her,  but  he  only  paused  to 

state : 

"I   haven't  time   to    save   you,   too;    I'm  thirty 
minutes  late." 

And  then  a  strong  arm  circled  her,  and  Blickett's 

massive  hand 
With  many  a  stout  and  sturdy  stroke  propelled 

her  safe  to  land. 
"  I've  got  the  coward  now,"  he  thought,  "  I  knew 

I'd  get  my  chance," 

As  he  conveyed  his  burden  to  the  nearest  ambu 
lance. 
Claire  looked  upon  him  coldly,  and  she  tossed  her 

pretty  head, 

"  Excuse  me,  sir,  I've  got  to  find  my  Jaspar  now," 
she  said. 

Don't  ask  me  why  she  acted  so;  I  judge   it  was 

because 
In  matters  that  concern  the  heart — well,  that's  how 

woman  does. 


[83] 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


THE  BEAUTY  AND  THE  BUTCHER 

BECAUSE  he  wag  a  butcher's  boy 

Steve  Stuffing's  love  for  Graycie  Grady 
Served  only  greatly  to  annoy 

That  fair,  fastidious  young  lady, 
In  vain  he  told  her  that  his  work 

In  such  a  sphere  was  uncongenial, 
She  said,  "  You're  just  a  butcher's  clerk — • 

A  low  meat-mutilating  menial." 


"  I'll  win  your  hand,"  he  said,  "  or  bust, 

You  haughty,  zero-hearted  charmer, 
Some  day  I'm  going  to  own  a  trust — » 

A  beef  trust — like  J.  Ogden  Armour." 
u  Reluctant  as,  of  course,  I  am," 

Said  she,  "  your  purpose  to  disparage 
The  horrid  hand  that  handles  ham 

Can  never  clasp  my  hand  in  marriage  I  " 


Awhile  on  faith  his  fancy  fed, 

He  hoped  remorse  would  overcome  her, 
Until  next  afternoon  he  read 

That  she  had  wed  a  Newport  plumber. 
[84] 


THE  BEAUTY  AND  THE  BUTCHER 

Did  he  gulp  down  a  fatal  pill, 
Like  heroes  m  romance's  pages? 

No,  sir.     He  sold  more  meat,  until 
The  butcher  had  to  raise  his  wages. 

He  soon  acquired  a  partnership, 

And,  being  crafty,  like  lago, 
He  got  a  deadly  vise-like  grip 

On  all  the  meat  outside  Chicago. 
By  leaps  and  bounds  his  fortune  grew, 

Because  of  shrewdly  planned  expansion. 
Until  within  a  year  or  two 

He  built  a  stately  Newport  mansion. 

Steve  drew  a  plumbing  contract,  which, 

With  heating,  baths  and  ventilation, 
Would  make  the  winning  bidder  rich 

Beyond  his  wildest  expectation. 
He  spread  his  contract  as  a  lure — 

He  grimly  gloated  when  he  let  it, 
Because  he  had  made  very  sure 

That  Graycie's  husband  did  not  get  it. 

Some  men  succeed  because  they're  born 

To  brains  or  wealth  or  high  position; 
Some  men  succeed  because  they're  torn 

From  childhood  with  a  great  ambition. 
And  others,  quite  a  lot,  you'll  find, 

Succeed,  as  did  our  young  friend  Stephen 
Because  they  just  make  up  their  mind 

That  they  are  going  to  get  even. 

[85] 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


THE  BLESSINGS  OF  HARD  TIMES 

WHEN  farmer  Jones's  Berkshire  hog  was  living  on 

the  farm 
His  personality  was  gross,  his  manner  had  no 

charm; 
He  daily  wallowed  in  the  mud,  he  guzzled  from  his 

trough 
And  grew  a  mass  of  embonpoint  which  nothing 

could  take  off. 
And  while  his  body  waxed  so  great  that  he  could 

hardly  crawl, 

His  brains  became  so  dull  and  thick  he  couldn't 
think  at  all. 

But  when  one  day  the  farm  burned  down  the  Berk 
shire  hog  got  loose 
And  had  to  put  his  thickening  brains  to  very  active 

use. 
Nobody  came  to  feed  him  now;  he  had  to  hustle 

round 
And  use  his  nerve  and  judgment  to  provide  his 

daily  found. 
And  soon  new  muscles  thewed  his  flanks  instead  of 

flabby  fat, 

And  his  once  soggy  countenance  became  worth 
looking  at. 

[86] 


THE  BLESSINGS   OF  HARD  TIMES 

There  is  no  startling  moral  to  this  tale  of  Jones's 

swine, 
Except  that  when  one  has  to  work  before  one  sits 

to  dine, 
And  has  to  keep  expenses  down,  the  life  he  learns 

to  lead 
Is  pretty  sure  to  keep  his  brains  from  running 

all  to  seed. 

And  though  no  doubt  it  will  surprise  a  lot  of  soft- 
raised  men, 

A  little  pinch  of  poverty  won't  hurt  them — now 
and  then. 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


THE  ROAD  TO  SUCCESS 

WHAT  good  will  it  do  you  to  work  like  a  horse? 

There  isn't  a  blessed  thing  in  it; 
The  fellow  you  work  for  expects  it,  of  course, 

But  don't  let  him  kid  you  one  minute. 
Don't  be  like  the  come-ons  you  see  round  a  shop 

Who  plug  till  they're  winded  and  wheezy. 
You'll  find  that  the  fellow  that  gets  to  the  top 

Is  the  lad  who  takes  everything  easy. 
This  wisdom  I  gleaned  from  the  earnest  remarks 
Of  a  midnight  sojourner  in  one  of  the  parks  I 


The  average  boss  on  a  job  doesn't  know 

One-half  of  the  things  youVe  forgotten. 
Come  back  at  him  snappy  and  say,  "  Is  that  so?  " 

If  he  says  that  your  work's  getting  rotten. 
Inform  him  your  motto  is  always  to  keep 

All  foremen  and  such  in  their  places, 
And  some  day  you'll  rise  to  the  top  of  the  heap 

And  spend  half  your  time  at  the  races. 
This  method  of  gaining  success  must  be  right, 
I  heard  it  proclaimed  in  the  breadline  last  night! 
[88] 


THE  ROAD  TO  SUCCESS 


Whenever  you  feel  you  have  earned  a  day's  pay, 

Drop  the  job  as  a  kid  drops  a  thistle; 
You  always  can  think  of  some  nice,  stalling  way 

To  loaf  till  the  toot  of  the  whistle. 
The  men  who  own  houses  in  Millionaire's  Row, 

With  horses  and  autos  and  flowers 
'And  that  sort  of  stuff,  never  got  all  that  dough 

By  sticking  at  work  after  hours. 
This  means  of  advancement  I'm  sure  cannot  fail, 
It  was  passed  out  to  me  through  the  bars  of  a  jail. 


[89] 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


"AND  WHEN  THEY  FALL" 

Many  of  the  former  nobility  of  Europe  who  were 
taught  domestic  arts  and  crafts  in  their  youth  as  an 
example  to  the  lower  classes  are  now  working  at 
mean  occupations  in  Turkey  and  Southeastern  Eu 
rope. — CABLE  DESPATCH. 

WHERE  is  the  Grand  Duke  Ruffanuff,  who  stole  the 

Czar's  first  wife? 

Who  used  to  shoot  and  burn  and  loot, 
While  all  his  suite  would  follow  suit, 
And  never  gave  a  single  hoot 
For  threats  upon  his  life? 

He's  mandatory  of  a  mule  just  out  of  Teheran; 
He's  working  for  Bazouk  Pasha  as  second  hired 
manl 

Where  is  Graf  von  Gipfelstein,  that  man  of  noble 

rank, 

Who  when  he  sat  at  baccarat, 
Would  bet  a  million  with  eclat, 
And  with  rare  nonchalance  stand  pat 

Until  he  broke  the  bank? 
You'll  find  him  down  in  old  Stamboul,  if  you  are 

passing  by, 

He's  mandatory  of  the  pigs  in  Izzak-Issik's  sty! 

[90] 


"  AND  WHEN  THEY  FALL  " 


Where  is  Countess  von  der  Schtuff,  that  ravishing 

brunette 

Whose  wiles  and  arts  broke  scores  of  hearts, 
Who  raided  all  the  jewel  marts — 
The  belle  of  many  foreign  parts — 

Is  she  in  Europe  yet? 
Across  the  Turkish  moors  she  bears  a  bucket  full 

of  corn 
She's  mandatory  of  a  cow  beside  the  Golden  Horn  1 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


AS  TO  THE  CAVEMAN 

I  LIKE  to  read  these  cave-men  tales; 

There  is  a  strange,  romantic  glamour 
In  books  which  tell  of  whiskered  males 

Who  did  their -wooing  with  a  hammer; 
Who  sauntered  about  the  town 

Until  they  saw  a  lovely  creature, 
Picked  up  a  rock  and  knocked  her  down, 

And  dragged  her,  screaming,  to  the  preacher  1 


I've  often  thought  that  if  to-day 

One  might  knock  down  an  Aphrodite 
Who  had  the  crust  to  say  him  nay, 

Girls  wouldn't  be  so  highty-tighty. 
If  one  could  win  'em  with  a  club, 

A  rock,  or  any  missile  handy, 
He'd  save  a  lot  on  high-priced  grub, 

And  motor  rides,  and  flowers  and  candy  I 


And  then,  again,  I  think  perhaps 

Those  yarns  of  how  young  folks  were  mated 
Were  penned  by  prehistoric  chaps 

Who  probably  exaggerated. 
[92] 


AS  TO  THE  CAVEMAN 


I've  often  wondered,  as  I  sat 
Perusing  these  delightful  pages, 

If  girls  could  change  as  much  as  that 
Despite  the  countless  passing  ages. 


For  since  the  days  of  Mother  Eve 

'Twas  never  safe  to  go  on  wooing, 
Without  so  much  as  "  by  your  leave,1' 

If  she  informed  you,  "  Nothing  doing.1' 
And  therefore  I  begin  to  fear 

That  these  Silurian  romances 
Which  I  believed  for  many  a  year 

Were  nothing  more  than  pleasing  fanciest 


[931 
/ 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


THE  NEW  JURISPRUDENCE 

(In  a  recent  action,  one  lawyer  knocked  his  legal 
opponent  down) 

No  longer  need  word-warring  lawyers  consume 

The  time  of  the  judge  and  the  jury 
With    dreary     delays     while     with    phrase     upon 
phrase 

They  lash  themselves  into  a  fury. 
Bill    Shakespeare    would    never    have    found    any 
fault 

With  our  modern  attorneys  at  law, 
Who  substitute  feints  for  amended  complaints 

And  pleas  with  a  punch  to  the  jaw. 


If  a  lawyer  declares,  "  In  the  counsel's  remarks 

A  certain  distortion  I  trace," 
The  counsel's  reply  is  a  smash  in  the  eye, 

Which  cuts  all  delay  from  the  case. 
The    old-time    expression,     "  My    learned    young 
friend," 

Is  heard  in  the  courtroom  no  more; 
There's   a   biff!    and   a   bing!    and   a   good  right- 
arm  swing, 

And  counsel  wakes  up  on  the  floor. 

[94] 


THE  NEW  JURISPRUDENCE 


Hereafter  attorneys  with  cases  to  try 

As  soon  as  they've  got  their  retainers 
Won't  bone  up  on  torts  and  the  New  York  reports 

But  will  work  up  their  case  at  a  trainer's. 
No  weary  citations  they'll  read  to  the  court, 

No  evidence  they  will  put  in, 

But  they'll  learn  how  a  punch  can  be  sent  to  the 
lunch, 

For  the  man  with  the  wallop  will  win. 

And  judges,  instead  of  devoting  their  time 

To  passing  on  motions  and  pleas, 
Must  learn   how  to  quote  what  one  Queensberry 
wrote 

For  the  guidance  of  ring  referees. 
No  longer  through  months  litigation  will  drag; 

Ten  minutes  will  settle  a  suit. 
And  we're  willing  to  bet  that  Jack  Dempsey  will  get 

The  practice  of  Elihu  Rootl 


[95] 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


FAIR  INES 
Borrowing  a  Bit  from  T.  Hood* 

OH,  have  you  seen  fair  Ines? 

She's  got  a  new  sedan, 
And  vows  that  she  can  drive  the  thing 

As  well  as  any  man. 
But  since  she's  ditched  a  trolley  car 

And  smashed  a  moving  van, 
Although  I  hate  to  doubt  her  word, 

1  hardly  think  she  can. 

I  saw  thee,  lovely  Ines, 

Come  wabbling  down  the  street. 
An  unsuspecting  traffic  cop 

Was  walking  off  his  beat, 
And  when  you  zigzagged  into  him 

And  knocked  him  twenty  feet, 
The  little  speech  he  made  to  you 

I  wouldn't  dare  repeat. 

I'm  glad  that  I,  fair  Ines, 

Was  not  amid  the  crash 
When  down  Fifth  Avenue  to-day 

You  made  that  spiral  dash. 
[96] 


FAIR  INES 


Were  there  upon  the  long,  long  street 
No  flivvers  you  could  smash, 

That  you  must  wreck  a  limousine 
That  cost  twelve  thousand,  cash? 

Reflect  again,  fair  Inesl 

Your  friends  cannot  connive 
In  your  assertion  that  it's  rot 

To  say  you  cannot  drive, 
When  of  your  neighbors'  motor  cars 

But  eight  per  cent  survive. 
And  of  the  dogs  along  your  street 

Not  one  is  left  alive  1 

Farewell,  farewell,  fair  Ines; 

No  lady  I  have  met 
Whenever  she  encountered  me 

Has  left  me  so  upset. 
I  still  am  on  this  earthly  sphere, 

But  cheerfully  I'll  bet 
And  give  you  any  odds  you  ask 

That  you  will  get  me  yet  1 


[971 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


THE  END  OF  A  PERFECT  BRAY 

By  operating  on  a  mule  scientists  have  succeeded 
in  making  him  voiceless. — NEWS  ITEM. 

"  A  few  can  touch  the  magic  string, 

And  noisy  Fame  is  proud  to  win  them. 
!Alas  for  those  who  never  sing, 

But  die  with  all  their  music  in  them !  " 
OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 


How  often,  as  the  dusk  drew  near 

And  vagrant  breezes  stirred  the  pool, 
We've  paused  beside  the  path  to  hear 

The  evening  carol  of  the  mule. 
A  simple  and  unstudied  strain, 

As  from  a  heart  that  overflowed, 
It  rose  and  fell  and  rose  again, 

And  died  in  echoes  down  the  road 


It  lacked  the  robin's  silver  trill, 
The  melody  was  often  bad, 

The  nuances  ill-spaced,  but  still, 
It  was  the  only  song  he  had. 
[98] 


THE  END  OF  PERFECT  BRAY 


It  had  a  certain  zip  and  zest, 
A  quality  that  seemed  to  soar — 

The  artless  singer  did  his  best, 

And  nightingales  could  do  no  more ! 


But  science,  with  its  ruthless  knife, 

These  vibrant  chords  has  learned  to  sever. 
That  song  that  spoke  the  joy  of  life 

In  zigzag  bars  is  stilled  forever. 
A  kindly  and  impulsive  brute 

In  silence  must  pursue  his  ways, 
The  song  upon  his  lips  is  mute, 

And  all  his  days  are  brayless  days. 


Now,  science  may  be  right,  of  course, 

Perhaps  the  mule  is  no  musician, 
And  merely  brayed  till  he  was  hoarse 

To  gratify  a  false  ambition. 
Perhaps  the  Muses  passed  him  by; 

Caruso's  genius  may  have  missed  him; 
And  yet  it's  sad  that  he  must  die 

With  all  that  music  in  his  system! 


[99] 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD 

THE  alley  cat  sat  on  a  fence 

And  warbled  his  evening  song, 
And  he  made  it  plain  with  his  weird  refrain 

That  he  fancied  the  world  was  wrong. 
"  Now  look  at  the  Persian  cat,"  sang  he, 

"  He  never  needs  hunt  for  grub, 
But  can  sit  and  purr  and  smooth  his  fur — * 

The  lop-eared,  long-tailed  dub! 


"  I  must  hunt  my  chow  in  the  garbage  cans 

And  always  must  keep  an  eye, 
As  I  stoop  to  eat,  on  the  nearest  street. 

For  the  curs  that  are  passing  by. 
I  must  swiftly  shoot  for  a  dry  goods  box 

At  the  sound  of  the  least  alarm, 
While  he  dozes  away  on  a  couch  all  day, 

Where  he  never  can  come  to  harm. 


"  He  drinks  his  cream  from  a  porcelain  cup 

That  only  his  lips  can  touch, 
And  they  get  a  vet  when  he  gets  upset 

If  he  foolishly  eats  too  much. 
[100] 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD 


He's  patted  and  cuddled  and  fussed  about, 

His  life  is  a  long  delight, 
While  I  must  scrap  to  keep  on  the  map; 

I  tell  you  it  isn't  right." 


The  Persian  cat  stared  sadly  forth 

On  the  alley  that  stretched  below, 
"  Oh,  hum!  "  he  said,  "  I  have  slept  and  fed. 

Existence  is  mighty  slow, 
Nothing  to  climb  and  nothing  to  chase, 

Not  even  a  mouse  or  rat. 
How  much  I'd  give  could  I  only  live 

The  life  of  that  alley  cat!" 


[101] 


JMORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


COMING  AND  GOING 

THREE  years  ago,  or  maybe  more, 

We  noticed  with  profound  misgiving 
That  everything  began  to  soar 

Connected  with  the  cost  of  living. 
Beefsteak  became  so  dear  and  rare 

We  had  to  get  along  without  it; 
Rents  rose  with  every  month,  and  there 

Was  nothing  we  could  do  about  it. 


We  sought  out  an  economist, 

Informed  him  of  the  situation, 
Exhibited  our  market  list 

And  asked  him  for  an  explanation. 
Said  he :  "  It's  easy  to  explain : 

The  nation's  passing  through  a  crisis. 
To  fume  and  fret  is  quite  in  vain; 

The  war,  you  know,  has  boosted  prices." 


But  when  the  war  was  done  last  Fall, 
It  struck  us  as  a  bit  surprising 

That  prices  didn't  fall  at  ail- 
Instead  of  that,  they  kept  on  rising. 
[102] 


COMING  AND  GOING 


Expenses  mounted  more  and  more; 

We  watched  with  troubled  perturbation 
The  wolf,  who  sat  outside  our  door 

And  grinned  with  eager  expectation. 

Again  we  sought  our  learned  friend 

And  said  in  accents  low  and  humble : 
"  The  war,  dear  sir,  is  at  an  end; 

Pray,  why  do  not  expenses  tumble  ?  " 
He  said:  "  You  must  not  fume  and  fret, 

Just  keep  your  temper,  my  advice  is 
The  world  is  very  much  upset, 

And  peace,  you  know,  has  boosted  prices." 


[103] 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


ESSAY  ON  LIFE  AND  GARDENS 

MY  roses  hang  diminished  heads 

And  grow  more  sickly,  hour  by  houf, 
My  wilting  Persian  lilac  sheds 

Its  buds,  before  they  ever  flower. 
I  never  tilled  a  garden  plot 

And  hoped  with  joy  to  contemplate  it, 
That  some  voracious  bug  did  not 

Devour  and  assimilate  it. 


The  slugs  chew  off  the  tulip  tips, 

The  pansies  fall  before  the  weevil* 
Around  the  poppies  crowd  the  thrippj 

Small  squashy  things,  and  bent  on  eviL 
They  swallow  liquid  nicotine, 

Nor  seem  to  feel  the  least  revulsion, 
They  lap  up  quarts  of  Paris  Green, 

They  thrive  on  kerosene  emulsion. 


I  war  upon  them  every  day; 

From  bush  to  bush  with  brooms  I  hound  them, 
But  they  have  an  infernal  way 

Of  slipping  from  my  clutch.  Confound  them  I 
[104] 


ESSAY  ON  LIFE   AND  GARDENS 

My  flowers  all  are  doomed,  I  know, 
For  I  grow  weary  of  endeavor, 

And,  while  I  rest,  the  insect  foe 
Keeps  toiling  on  the  job  forever. 


Tis  thus  that  thieves  and  burglars  ply 

Unflaggingly  their  base  vacations, 
Around  the  clock,  while  you  and  I 

Seek  sleep  and  other  relaxations. 
Ah,  life  would  be  one  long  delight 

If  preachers  toiled  like  mischief-brewers, 
And  if  apostles  of  the  right 

Had  half  the  pep  of  evildoers. 


[105] 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


ADS 

WITH  timid  and  affrighted  eyes 

I  read  the  ads,  and  when  I  read  'em 
And  note  the  things  they  advertise 

I  suddenly  find  out  I  need  'em. 
Fresh  needs  I've  never  known  before 

Imperil  my  hard-earned  per  diem; 
I  scan  the  list,  and,  what  is  more, 

1  go  and  buy  'em. 


I  saw  an  add  about  a  farm 

Afar  from  urban  roar  and  rattle, 
Where  one  may  know  the  sylvan  charm 

Of  growing  fields  and  lowing  cattle. 
It  spoke  of  birds  upon  a  bough 

Which  pipe  matutinal  thanksgiving, 
I  read  that  ad  three  times — and  now 

That's  where  I'm  living. 


An  automobile  ad  one  day 

Somehow  attracted  my  attention: 

It  dwelt  in  an  alluring  way 

On  spiral  gears  and  frame-suspension; 
[106] 


ADS 

It  waked  a  thirst  to  own  that  car, 

And  though  for  weeks  and  weeks  I  fought  it- 

You  know  what  witching  things  ads  are — • 
At  last  I  bought  it. 


The  men  who  write  the  ads  must  be 

Well  versed  in  some  hypnotic  system 
They  have  a  weird  effect  on  me, 

I  simply  never  can  resist  'em, 
They've  dissipated  all  my  roll 

For  things  theyVe  sold  to  me,  dod  rot  'em 
Expensive  things — yet,  on  the  whole 

Fm  glad  I've  got  'em. 


[107] 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


TIME  BRINGS  CHANGES 

WHEN  thirst  was  young  and  cost  us  to  maintain 

A  rather  large  per  cent  of  our  per  diem, 
We  used  to  love  to  titillate  our  brain 

With  quartrains  from  the  pen  of  Omar  Khayyam. 
Then  every  tavern  portal  stood  agape, 

No  laws  laid  bans  on  bibulous  enjoyment, 
And  getting  jocund  with  the  fruitful  grape 

Appeared  to  us  a  rather  fine  employment 


A  book  of  verses  culled  beside  the  bar 

(We  didn't  need  the  book;  we  used  to  spout  'em) , 
A  friend  or  two,  a  highball — a  cigar — 

Combined,  they  had  a  rare  delight  about  'em. 
And  all  the  persons  present  would  agree 

That  friends  like  us  should  never,  never  sunder, 
And  as  for  Omar  Khayyam,  there  could  be 

No  doubt  he  was  one  young  Persian  wonder. 


From  twenty-two  to  twenty-five,  perhaps, 
We  knew  by  heart  all  Omar's  many  pages, 

And  held  with  two  or  three  congenial  chaps 
That  he  was  quite  the  marvel  of  the  ages. 

[108] 


TIME  BRINGS  CHANGES 


"  What  harm  in  getting  boiled?  "  he  seemed  to  say; 

"  If  whisky's  due  to  bowl  you  over — let  it, 
And  as  for  life,  it  soon  will  flit  away, 

The  wise  way  is  to  guzzle — and  forget  it." 


But  now  that  we  have  curbed  our  appetite 

(For  with  more  years  we're  more  sedately  gaited) 
We  do  not  stroll  'round  taverns  of  a  night 

And  never  get  the  least  illuminated. 
We've  changed  our  views  on  life  to  some  extent, 

We  do  not  look  on  things  the  way  we  uster, 
We're  more  reserved  and  placid  and  content 

And  Mr.  Omar's  lost  a  first-class  booster. 


[109] 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


PROOF 

JOHN  BURROUGHS,  who's  a  shark  on  birds 

(He  classifies  'em  by  a  feather) , 
Avers  that  they're  devoid  of  words 

And  simply  cannot  talk  together. 
He  gives  the  nature-fakers  fits 

Who  picture  birds  in  conversation, 
And  tears  their  story  books  to  bits 

In  scientific  indignation. 


But  there's  a  wren  outside  my  door 

That  talks  whenever  I  go  near  him, 
And  talks  so  glibly,  furthermore, 

That  I  just  wish  that  John  could  hear  him. 
Of  mornings,  when  I  stroll  about, 

The  while  he  hymns  his  glad  thanksgiving, 
He  interrupts  himself  to  shout: 

"  Hey !    Ain't  it  glorious  to  be  living?  " 


But  if  too  near  his  nest  I  stray 
Again  he  pauses  in  mid-carol, 

Darts  past  my  head,  and  chatters:  "  Say! 
"  You  touch  my  nestlings  at  your  peril 
[no] 


PROOF 


"We're  small,  but  we  have  dagger  beaks: 
"  Just  try  to  climb  that  tree;  I  dare  you!  " 

And,  when  I  turn  away,  he  shrieks : 

"  You  great  big  brute !    I  knew  I'd  scare  you 


And  when  he's  speaking  to  a  cat 

And  lets  his  wrath  flow  forth  unstinted, 
I  solemnly  assure  you  that 

The  things  he  says  cannot  be  printed. 
Perhaps  John  never  happened  by 

When  birds1  emotions  deeply  stirred  'em 
For,  though  he's  wiser  far  than  I, 

I  know  that  birds  can  talk.    I've  heard  'em. 


[in] 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


'TWAS  EVER  THUS 

WHEN  Shakespeare  hurdled  into  fame 

And  critics  praised  his  lilting  lines, 
While  leading  playshops  ran  his  name 

Upon  their  large  electric  signs, 
His  colleagues  grumbled:  "  What's  the  use? 

Bill  don't  know  how  to  write  a  hit, 
But,  honest!  don't  it  beat  the  deuce 

The  way  he  gets  away  with  it? 


"  He  never  doped  a  single  plot, 

He  found  it  easier  to  borrow, 
'And  we  know  where  the  fellow  got 

His  situations — to  our  sorrow. 
Of  course  we  wouldn't  knock  the  lad, 

We  really  do  not  give  a  cuss, 
But  still  it  sort  of  makes  us  mad 

To  think  how  much  he  stole  from  us. 


"  We  must  not  be  misunderstood, 
We  hope  he  will  succeed — poor  devil, 

But — well,  his  memory's  too  good 
For  anyone  who's  on  the  level. 
[112] 


'TWAS  EVER  THUS 


He  pulls  our  gags  in  every  play, 
And  now  he's  raking  in  the  pelf 

And  finds  how  good  they  get  away, 
He  thinks  he  thought  of  them  himself. 


"  Well,  they  will  stand  for  him  a  while, 

Just  now  the  managers  won't  try 
Good  plays  that  have  his  beat  a  mile, 

But  he  will  blow  up  by  and  by; 
He'll  do  his  fling  and  sing  his  song 

And  then  the  town  will  leave  him  flat, 
They  will  not  stand  for  him  for  long — 

They  cannot  be  as  thick  as  that." 


This  happened  many  years  ago, 

And  since  those  old  and  envious  days 
Ten  thousand  dramatists  or  so 

Have  written  fifty  thousand  plays, 
And  every  one  who  groped  for  fame 

And  found  it  fairly  in  his  clutch 
Has  been  derided  much  the  same 

As  Shakespeare  was — and  cared  as  much, 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


THE  PASSING  OF  AN  INSTITUTION 

Owing  to  the  scarcity  of  starch  the  hard-boiled 
shirt  is  to  be  dispensed  with. — NEWS  ITEM. 

THE  hard-boiled  shirt!    The  hard-boiled  shirt! 

Which  Mother  pressed  and  Father  wore ! 
How  tender  memories  revert 

To  days  and  things  that  are  no  more ! 
On  every  seventh  morn  it  rose 

And  fell  upon  his  writhing  chest 
Beneath  his  one  black  suit  of  clothes — 

His  solemn,  somber  Sunday  best. 
White !    Shining !    Destitute  of  dirt, 
An  awesome  thing,  that  hard-boiled  shirt! 


Six  days  a  week  in  tattered  jeans 

He  hoed  the  corn  and  mowed  the  hay, 
And  milked  the  cows  to  gain  the  means 

To  dress  up  on  the  seventh  day. 
On  Sunday  he  would  sleep  till  dawn, 

Comb  out  his  whiskers,  brush  his  hair 
And  put  that  gleaming  garment  on, 

And  lo!     Another  man  was  there. 
Men  called  him  Deacon  then,  though  "  Deck 
Was  what  they  called  him  through  the  week ! 


THE  PASSING  OF  AN  INSTITUTION 

It  lent  him  dignity  and  poise, 

It  gave  him  standing  in  the  town; 
When  he  was  wearing  it  the  boys 

Would  shudder  if  he  chanced  to  frown. 
Alas,  those  good  old  days  are  gone 

In  these  hard  times  when  ruthless  war 
Across  the  land  sweeps  on  and  on 

The  hard-boiled  shirt  returns  no  more. 
No  rigid  vestment,  spic  and  span, 
Remains  to  mark  the  gentleman ! 


[us] 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


THE  FLY 

THE  tiger  is  above  deceit, 

His  eyes  are  red  and  glaring; 
He  warns  whomever  he  would  eat 

With  his  ferocious  bearing. 
The  python  hisses  ere  he  coils 

About  his  chosen  victim, 
And  he  who's  crushed  within  his  toils 

Can't  say  the  python  tricked  'im. 
But,  ah !  the  flies  that  round  us  hover, 

Their  infamy  is  under  cover. 


They  fix  us  with  a  timid  glance, 

Pathetically  appealing; 
They  fascinate  us  when  they  dance 

Inverted  on  the  ceiling. 
Their  manner  is  so  circumspect, 

Their  beauties  are  so  many 
That  seldom  do  our  eyes  detect 

The  blood  on  their  antennas. 
Yet  massacre,  assassination 

And  murder  is  their  occupation. 
[116] 


THE  FLY 


Associate  with  crocodiles, 

Make  camp  among  gorillas, 
Take  chances  on  court-martial  trials, 

Arranged  by  Pancho  Villas; 
Pat  playfully  a  tiger  shark 

When  someone  has  annoyed  him; 
Step  on  a  cobra  in  the  dark, 

But  for  the  fly — avoid  him. 
He  has  no  soul  nor  heart — dod  rot  him — • 

The  only  thing  to  do  is  swat  him ! 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


EXTRA!    ALL  ABOUT  THE  WAY  OF  THE 
WORLD 

CARUSO  can  get  for  a  bit  of  a  song  the  price  of  an 

automobile ; 
I  could  sing  the  same  lay  and  you'd  answer  me  nay 

if  I  asked  for  the  price  of  a  meal. 


John  D.  can  write  checks  for  a  million  apiece,  and 
get  them  all  cashed  at  the  bank; 

I  could  do  the  same  thing,  but  I'd  land  in  Sing  Sing 
in  a  dungeon  depressingly  dank. 


Henry  James  could  write  books  that  don't  mean  what 
they  say,  or  anything  else,  but  they  sell; 

If  I  wrote  the  same  kind  they'd  examine  my  mind  and 
have  me  restrained  for  a  spell. 


The  corner  policeman  can  walk  on  your  feet,  or 

haughtily  brush  you  aside; 
If  I  tried  the  same  trick  you  would  reach  for  a  brick, 

and  I'd  have  an  ambulance  ride. 
[118] 


ALL  ABOUT  THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD 

John  Drew  can  eat  lunch  as  he  sits  on  the  stage,  and 
your  eager  approval  you'll  shout; 

I  could  eat  the  same  lunch,  but  you'd  rise  in  a  bunch 
and  savagely  cry  "  Put  'im  out!  " 


The  boss  tells  statesmen  to  do  what  he  says  without 

any  palpable  reason; 
I  could  do  that,  of  course,  but  they'd  seize  me  by 

force  and  order  me  tried  for  high  treason. 


This  tale  has  no  moral;  I  try  to  get  mine;  the  other 

man  tries  to  get  his; 
And  although  I  am  sore  that  he  always  gets  more, 

it's  merely  the  way  that  things  is. 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


THE  SIMPLICITY  OF  CHILDHOOD 
x 

WHEN  Flossie  Smith  met  Trixie  Brown  upon  the 

street  last  week, 
She  threw  her  arms  about  her  neck  and  kissed  her 

on  the  cheek, 
With  simple,  girlish  friendliness  that  fond  caress 

was  fraught, 
And  this  is  what  she  said     And    this    is    what    she 

to  her:  thought: 


You  dear  old  thing,  you  look  too 

sweet, 

That  dress  is  simply  swell, 
A  stunning  costume  for  the  street, 

And  suits  your  style  so  well, 
Do  come  and   see  me,   darling, 

soon, 

That  hat's  just  gorgeous!   My! 
Come   up  tomorrow    afternoon ! 
Goodby      (smack!      smack!) 
Goodby ! 


There's   two   new   wrinkles  on 

her   face! 

She's   getting  gross   and   fat! 
That  dress  is  imitation  lace — 

Great  heavens !    What  a  hat ! 
I  know  she  pads,  because  she's 

got 

Such  weird,  outlandish  curves, 
I  hope  she  doesn't  come!    Great 

Scott! 
But  she  gets  on  my  nerves! 


[120] 


THE  SIMPLICITY  OF  CHILDHOOD 


THE  SIMPLICITY  OF  CHILDHOOD 
ii 

When  Mrs.  Jones  met  Mrs.  Green  uptown  the  other 

day, 
She  stopped  to  give  her  greeting  in  a  kindly,  genial 

way. 
And  you,  yourself,  perhaps,  can  guess  if  Mrs.  Green 

divined, 

When    this   was   in   her     That    this    was    in    her 
spoken  word:  her  mind: 


Good   afternoon.     So   glad    we 

met. 

And  how  is  Mr.  Green? 
You  know  you  still  are  in  my 

debt— 

A  social  debt  I  mean — 
That   game   of   bridge!      Good 

gracious  no! 

Don't  mention  that  at  all! 
I'd  quite  forgotten  it,  you  know! 
You  owe  a  dinner  call. 


Here's    Mrs.    Green,    I   hate   to 

dun 

The  miserly  old  fright; 
But  she  shall  pay  me  what  I  won 

At  bridge  the  other  night. 
I    simply    won't    be    fleeced    by 

friends 

Still  I  can't  make  a  scene; 
And — well,  the  horrid  thing  pre 
tends 
She  don't  know  what  I  mean. 


[121] 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


THE  SIMPLICITY  OF  CHILDHOOD 
in 

When  Mr.  Tom  met  Mr.  Bill  upon  the  avenue, 
They  went  into  the  nearest  bar  and  ordered  drinks 

for  two; 
And  Tom,   with  manly  openness,   declared   they'd 

never  part, 
And  this  is  what  he  said     And    this    was     in    his 

to  Bill:  heart: 


I  like  a  man  that's  straight  and 

square ; 

I  know  my  friends,  I  do. 
I  know  that  I'll  be  treated  fair 

If  I  play  fair  with  you. 
When    we    are    doing   business, 

Bo, 

Why  you're  just  like  my  brother; 
Them  knocks  on  you   I  hear 

don't  go, 
Come  on,  let's  have  another. 


I  know  he's  crooked  to  the  bone, 

He's  just  a  common  con, 
He'd    not    have    come    here    if 
he'd  known 

That  I  was  really  on; 
I'll  stake  him  to  a  fancy  meal 

And  listen  to  him  talk, 
But  when  we  mix  up  in  that  deal 

I'll  watch  him  like  a  hawk! 


[122] 


THE  SIMPLICITY  OF  CHILDHOOD 


THE  SIMPLICITY  OF  CHILDHOOD 

IV 

When  Freddie  White  meets  Willie  Black  behind  the 

alley  fence, 

He  utters  no  conventional  and  trite  inconsequence; 
He  eyes  the  stranger  for  a  while,  and  sets  his  teeth 

and  blinks; 
And  this  is  what  he  says  to  him,  and  also  what  he 

thinks : 


Hey,  wot  you  lookin'  at,  you  guy? 

Suppose  my  hair  is  red  ? 
If  you  keep  starin*  at  me  why 

I'll  come  an'  punch  your  head. 
You  ain't  no  bute,  as  I  can  see, 

You're  too  dressed  up  an'  fat; 
I  told  yer  not  to  look  at  me, 

Take  that!   (punch,  punch)  an'  that! 


[123] 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


THE  FARMER'S  IDLE  WIFE 

The  farmer's  wife  is  now  so  occupied  with  social 
affairs  that  she  has  lost  the  art  of  making  butter 
and  jam  and  doing  the  work  of  the  farm  that  her 
grandmother  did;  this  results  in  a  great  economic 
loss  to  the  country. — THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  A  GOVERN- 
MENT  REPORT  ISSUED  FROM  THE  AGRICULTURAL 
DEPARTMENT. 

THE  farmer's  wife,  in  early  days,  got  up  at  half-past 

two, 
And  shined  the  plows  and  milked  the  cows  and  put 

the  prunes  to  stew. 
The   breakfast  for  the  hands  she'd  set  upon  the 

stroke  of  four, 
And  then  she'd  bake  her  bread  and  cake  and  scrub 

the  kitchen  floor. 
But  nowadays  the  farmer's  wife  has  time  to  call 

her  own, 
"  Good  gracious!  "  says  the  Government,  "  how  idle 

she  has  grown !  " 

The  farmer's  wife,  in  times  gone  by,  brought  up  the 

calves  and  lambs, 
And  sacked  the  oats  and  fed  the  shoats  and  smoked 

the  hickory  hams, 

[124] 


THE  FARMER'S  IDLE  WIFE 


And  when  she'd  cooked  three  great  big  meals  she 
cheerfully  arose 

And  with  her  churn  sat  down  to  earn  the  money  for 
her  clothes. 

But  now  she  often  visits  'round  and  gossips,  like  as 
not. 

"  My  goodness,"  says  the  Government,  "  how  worth 
less  she  has  got !  " 

The  farmer's  wife,  some  years  ago,  was  wholly  free 

from  nerves, 
Twelve  hours  a  day  she'd  slave  away  at  putting  up 

preserves. 
Six  children  dangling  at  her  skirts,  a  seventh  on  her 

arm, 
She'd  gamely  set  herself  to  get  the  mortgage  off  the 

farm. 
But  now  she  sometimes  takes  a  rest,  like  city  women 

do. 
"  Great  Heavens !  "  cries  the  Government,  "  what 

is  she  coming  to?  " 

The  farmer's  wife  departed  from  this  vale  of  toil 

and  tears 
For  happier  climes,  in  those  old  times,  when  under 

thirty  years. 
The  farmer  got  another  mate,  he  somehow  always 

found 
The  ideal  wife  who  toiled  through  life  and  rested — 

underground. 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


But  now  sometimes  her  years  add  up  their  full 

alloted  sum. 
"  Great  Scott!"   exclaims  the  Government,   u  how 

shiftless  she's  become !  " 


WHAT'S  THE  USE 


WHAT'S  THE  USE 

IT  was  the  driver  of  a  van 

Who  to  his  offspring  said: 
"  I'm  just  a  rough-necked  workingman 

What  labors  for  his  bread. 
But  you  should  learn  to  read  and  write 

And  multiply  and  sich, 
To  wear  clean  shirts  and  talk  polite, 

And  some  day  you'll  be  rich." 


And  so  the  lad  to  school  was  sent, 

Where,  as  the  years  rolled  by, 
He  learned  what  conic  sections  meant, 

And  how  to  extract  Pi. 
And  presently  he  could  discuss 

Such  esoteric  themes 
As  differential  calculus 

And  Freud  on  Foolish  Dreams. 


Meanwhile  the  rough-necked  workingman 

With  fond  paternal  joy 
Continued  driving  of  his  van 

To  educate  his  boy. 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


And  often  he  would  mop  his  brow 

And  joyfully  declare : 
44  That  kid  o'  mine  ten  years  from  now 

Will  be  a  millionaire  1  " 

Today  the  kid  is  keeping  books 

At  ten  a  week  for  pay, 
And  from  the  way  the  outlook  looks 

That's  where  he's  going  to  ^  stay. 
And  every  morning  he  complains, 

In  peevish  tones  and  sad: 
"  If  I  had  brawn  instead  of  brains 

Fdbe  as  rich  as  dad!" 


[128] 


THE  VOICE  IN  THE  NIGHT 


THE  VOICE  IN  THE  NIGHT 

UPON*  a  midnight,  cold  and  clear, 

When  slumber  marks  you  for  its  own, 
You  waken,  with  a  start,  to  hear 

The  tinkling  of  the  telephone — • 
!A  sound  that,  heard  in  broad  daylight, 

Possesses  a  peculiar  charm, 
But  in  the  watches  of  the  night 

Invests  your  soul  with  wild  alarm. 


You  rise  with  palpitating  dread, 

And  through  the  deep  and  spectral  gloom 
You  stagger  from  your  downy  bed 

Unsteadily  across  the  room. 
'And  standing  in  the  wintry  breeze, 

Your  nightie  flapping  to  and  fro 
Athwart  your  weak  and  trembling  knees, 

You  feebly  cry,  "  Hello  I    Hello  1  " 


"  Hello  1    Hello  I  "  you  feebly  cry, 
With  chilling  shanks  and  rising  ire, 

But  you  elicit  no  reply 

Except  the  singing  of  the  wire, 
[129] 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


Until  in  soothing  tones  and  low, 
As  if  your  troubled  soul  to  ease, 

A  lady  answers  your  "  Hello  " 

And  softly  says,  "  Excuse  it,  please !  " 


"  Excuse  it,  please !  "  when  one  is  torn 

From  gentle  slumber's  twilight  zone 
As  frightened  as  if  Gabriel's  horn 

Its  awful  reveille  had  blown! 
When  ripped  untimely  from  his  bed 

When  every  nerve  that  he  has  got 
Is  set  on  edge  with  cold  and  dread, 

Will  he  excuse  it?    He  will  NOT! 


IN  BEHALF  OF  THE  MOVIES 


IN  BEHALF  OF  THE  MOVIES 

WHEN  Willie  inverts  a  cup  custard 

On  grandfather's  silvery  head, 
Deposits  the  cat  in  his  sister's  new  hat 

Or  saws  off  the  legs  of  the  bed, 
Or  secretly  stuffs  the  piano 

With  grasshoppers,  crickets  or  such, 
It's  a  pretty  safe  bet  that  the  dear  little  pet 

Has  been  to  the  movies  too  much. 


Whenever  the  child  of  your  neighbor 

Gives  forth  a  terrific  "  Boo-hoo !  " 
And  you  find  she  is  bound  to  a  stake  in  the  ground 

By  the  coils  of  a  clothes-line  lassoo, 
It's  safe  to  conjecture  that  Willie 

Has  been  overfed  on  the  art 
You  often  have  seen  when  they  flash  on  the  screen 

The  prowess  of  Fairbanks  and  Hart. 


Yet  we  who  are  old  can  remember 

The  kids  of  an  earlier  time 
Who  fed  on  the  tales  of  the  wild  Western  trails 

That  reeked  with  all  manner  of  crime; 
When  rifles  rang  out  in  the  barnyard, 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


And  the  rooster  was  watchful  and  spry, 
Who  got  to  his  roost  when  the  volley  was  loosed 
When  the  death-dealing  bullets  flew  by. 


And  when  the  last  rough  stuff  is  censored 

And  movies  are  gentle  and  mild 
As  reformers  could  ask  who  are  charged  with  the  task 

Of  making  life  fit  for  the  child, 
Jhe  child  will  proceed  at  his  leisure 

To  break  all  attempts  at  restraint, 
For  a  kid  is  a  kid,  and  dear  heaven  forbid 

That  he  ever  behave  like  a  saint! 


[132] 


TO  A  SPECTRE  AUNT 


TO  A  SPECTRE  AUNT 

OH,  spinster  aunt  I  never  had 

(At  your  first  word  I  nearly  fainted), 
I  still  don't  know  you,  yet  I'm  glad 

You  came  and  tried  to  get  acquainted. 
The  medium  was  in  her  trance — 

And  in  their  trances  ghosts  inspire  'em — • 
She  asked  if  I  had  any  aunts; 

I  told  her  "  Yes,"  and  you  cried  "  Hiram  1  " 


You  charmed  me  with  your  pleasing  chat. 

Your  accents  growing  ever  fonder; 
I  liked  the  way  you  told  me  that 

You  felt  so  happy  over  yonder; 
You  said  that  Uncle  Bill  and  Sis 

Were  much  improved  by  their  translation. 
I'm  sure  I  never  asked  you  this — » 

You  volunteered  the  information. 


You  whispered  that  my  lot  in  life 
In  after  years  would  be  a  glad  one, 

But  that  I  couldn't  trust  my  wife — 

I  thought  that  queer — I  never  had  one  I 

[133] 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


You  said  George  Wright  could  throw  some  light 
On  stocks  in  which  I  was  investing; 

I  have  no  stocks,  I  don't  know  Wright — 
But  still  your  news  was  interesting. 


You  said  I'd  had  the  scarlet  rash 

And  didn't  have  a  good  digestion, 
And  then  you  vanished  like  a  flash 

Ere  I  could  ask  a  single  question. 
Oh,  spinster  aunt,  no  matter  where 

The  soft  ethereal  breezes  blow  you, 
On  my  arrival  over  there 

I'll  look  you  up — I'd  like  to  know  you ! 


[134] 


TO  A  MOVIE  CHILD 


TO  A  MOVIE  CHILD 

OH,  little  loving  Movie  Child, 

What  woes  are  yours  to  carry! 
Your  mother  gets  a  little  riled 

And  throws  you  from  the  ferry ! 
The  dastard  villains,  scowling  black, 

To  show  how  much  they  hate  you, 
Affix  you  to  a  railroad  track 

Where  trains  may  decimate  you. 
Although  your  sentiments  are  pure 

As  William  Jennings  Bryan's, 
The  Arab  sheiks  are  always  sure 

To  feed  you  to  the  lions. 


I've  seen  a  widow,  pale  and  wild, 

Amid  the  flames  that  burned  her, 
Observing,  "  Fireman,  save  my  child!  " 

And  lo !    The  fireman  spurned  her. 
I've  seen  you  penned  inside  a  lair 

By  some  base-hearted  sinner, 
About  the  time  a  grizzly  bear 

Was  coming  home  to  dinner. 

[135] 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


I've  seen  you  smiling  with  delight 

While  busily  unwrapping 
A  big  round  stick  of  dynamite, 

Whose  fuse  was  brightly  snapping. 


And  always  you  have  worn  a  smile 

So  tender  and  forgiving, 
To  show  that  you  were  free  from  guile 

And  felt  the  joy  of  living. 
Though  scheming  scoundrels  plainly  spoke 

The  evil  they  intended, 
You  treated  them  like  gentlefolk 

And  never  seemed  offended. 
Full  many  an  hour  youVe  beguiled, 

Full  many  a  thrill  I  owe  you; 
But  you're  so  good,  dear  Movie  Child, 

I  would  not  care  to  know  you. 


[136] 


THE  OUIJA  BOARD 


THE  OUIJA  BOARD 

WHEN  Madam  took  the  Ouija  Board  at  my  request, 

and  made 
An  effort  to  communicate  with  Herbert  Spencer's 

shade, 
And  Herbert  presently  came  forth  and  spelled  a 

note,  which  said: 
14  My  son,  I  ain't  had  no  regrets  at  all  since  I  been 

dead. 
If  you  set  tight  a  little  while  and  watch  the  Madam's 

hand, 
I'll  learn  you  all  there  is  to  know  about  the  spirit 

land," 
I  thought,  although  at  the  unknown  I  do  not  like 

to  scoff, 
That  Herbert  must  have  changed  a  bit  since  he  has 

shuffled  off. 


When  Cyclops,  also  by  request,  obliged  by  coming 

through 
And  set  the  Ouija  Board  at  work,  as  all  good  spirits 

do, 

[137] 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


I  own  that  I   was  quite   surprised  when  he  said: 

"  Never  fear, 
There  ain't  no  cause  to  worry,  lad,  your  Uncle  Cy 

is  here. 
I  seen  your  granddad  yesterday,  he's  looking  fine 

and  well, 
I  hope  you'll  call  me  every  night,  there's  such  a  lot 

to  tell." 
I  could  not  help  reflecting,  as  he  wandered  out  of 

range, 
That  some  things  in  the  spirit  world  are  marvelously 

strange. 


"  Can  you  call  up  George  Eliot?"     "  Why,  sure," 

the  Madam  said, 
"  This  Ouija  Board  will  send  you  word  from  anyone 

that's  dead." 
She  placed  her  fingers  on  the  board,  and  lo!  the 

thing  was  done; 
She  wrote,  slow  spelling  out  each  word:  u  I'm  old 

man  Eliot's  son, 

I  know  a  lot  of  friends  of  yours;  we  have  the  self 
same  joys, 
But  not  the  sorrows  and  the  trials  we  did  when  we 

was  boys." 
I  sighed  and  o'er  my  beaded  brow  I  passed  my 

handkerchief, 
"  These  spirit  miracles,"  said  I,  u  are  almost  past 

belief." 

[138] 


A  BLOOMING  SHAME 


A  BLOOMING  SHAME 

IT'S  reported  in  the  trusty  Sunday  cables 

That    the    little    English    children,    bless    their 

hearts, 
Are  enamored  of  the  glamour  of  the  substitute  for 

grammar 

Which  the  transatlantic  movie  show  imparts. 
In  the  title  of  the  Fairbanks-Chaplin  pictures 

There's    a    certain    brutal    punch    and    vulgar 

tang, 
And  the  hapless  little  blighters  (they're  all  cinema 

first  nighters) 
Are  becoming  too  adept  in  Yankee  slang. 

It  is  harmful  to  the  adolescent  Briton 

To  observe  a  giddy  youth  upon  the  screen 
Who  bestows    his   hard-earned   thick   'uns   among 

females  he  calls  chickens 
Over  whom  he  says  he's  wild  instead  of  keen. 
Little  children  quickly  catch  these  horrid  phrases, 

Never  thinking  how  debased  it  is  and  wrong 
When  the  lady  with  the  poodle  doesn't  murmur 

"  Toodle-oodle !  " 

When  she  waves  her  hand  at  parting,  but  "  So 
long!" 

[139] 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


How  it  pains  the  proud  and  proper  British  parent 

When  his  son  and  heir,-  a  toppy  little  chap, 
Quarreling  with  his  brother  Willie,  rather  than  re 
mark,  "You  silly!" 

Substitutes  the  awful  expletive,  "  You  sap !  " 
How  the  British  mother  shudders  in  amazement 
When  her  daughter  with  disgusting  Yankee  pep 
Doesn't  say,  "  My  word,  old  topper,  you  will  come 

a  blooming  cropper!  " 

But  observes  with  blunt  directness,  "  Watch  yer 
step!" 

And  the  elegant,  soft-spoken  British  nursemaid, 

How  she  suffers  when  the  children  in  her  care, 
As  they  munch  their  morning  kippers,  speak  of  kids 

instead  of  nippers, 
And,  when  meaning  "  Aw  Gawan  I "  say,  "  Get 

the  air!" 

We  should  really  ask  our  motion  picture  magnates 
If  they  won't  put  more  refinement  in  their  game, 
Introducing  slang  expressions  in  His  Majesty's  pos 
sessions 
Is  a  blighted,  bally,  blooming,  bloody  shame  1 


[140] 


HOW  DOTH  THE  LITTLE  BUSY  BEE? 


HOW  DOTH  THE  LITTLE  BUSY  BEE? 

'A  LOVELY  insect  is  the  bee — < 

A  thousand  bards,  I  guess,  have  said  it — > 
But  just  the  same,  we  cannot  see 

That  he  deserves  especial  credit, 
Nor  shall  we  waste  our  readers'  time 

With  fulsome  and  enraptured  phrases 
And  make  of  them  a  fawning  rhyme 

To  sing  the  small  impostor's  praises. 

The  bee  does  work,  that's  true  enough; 

He  violates  all  union  hours 
In  batting  round  the  fields  to  stuff 

Himself  with  honey  culled  from  flowers. 
But  if  he  paused  upon  a  limb 

To  rest  or  gossip  or  palaver, 
His  fellow-bees  would  light  on  him 

And  he'd  be  left  a  cold  cadaver. 

He  never  quits  or  goes  on  strikes 
Or  visits  with  his  idle  neighbors, 

But  that  is  not  because  he  likes 
To  be  engaged  on  toilsome  labors. 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


He  never  loafs,  but  that's  because 
The  craven  creature  is  afraid  to, 

He  knows  the  apiarian  laws, 

And  only  works  because  he's  made  to. 

So  often  he's  been  sung  about 

That  in  his  silly  little  noddle 
He  hasn't  got  the  slightest  doubt 

That  he  is  an  industrial  model. 
We'll  never  praise  the  priggish  bug; 

The  industry  he  makes  such  show  of 
Reminds  us  of  a  lot  of  smug 

Vainglorious  people  that  we  know  of. 


THE  HIGHER  COW  CULTURE 


THE  HIGHER  COW  CULTURE 

In  Wisconsin  it  has  been  found  that  cows  pro 
vided  with  beautiful  surroundings  are  far  more  pro 
ductive  than  the  common  cow  of  the  barnyard  and 
stanchels. — NEWS  ITEM. 

WHEN  first  our  cow,  once  strong  and  hale 

And  buoyant  with  the  joy  of  living, 
Began,  along  last  Spring,  to  fail 

It  filled  us  all  with  black  misgiving. 
For  cows,  when  grass  grows  lush  and  green 

Should  give  their  minds  to  getting  fatter, 
And  when  they're  wan,  and  sad  of  mien, 

There's  something  serious  the  matter. 


The  vet  suggested  change  of  food 

And  restfulness  and  calm  and  quiet 
But  still  she  seemed  to  droop  and  brood 

Despite  the  rest  and  altered  diet. 
At  last  one  day,  oppressed  with  gloom 

And  with  her  heart  like  lead  within  her 
She  wandered  in  the  dining  room 

Where  we  were  sitting  down  to  dinner. 

[143] 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


She  looked  about  her  with  delight 

And  sighed  with  deep  appreciation; 
(Our  furniture  is  Hepplewhite — 

Nice  tasteful  stuff — though  imitation) 
She  viewed  the  paintings  on  the  wall 

Serene,  attentive  and  quiescent, 
And  one  who  knew  the  cow  at  all 

Could  see  that  she  was  convalescent. 

And  now  she  has  her  own  boudoir 

Of  tile  and  marble,  brightly  burnished 
And  all  her  bovine  sisters  are 

Supplied  with  rooms  as  nicely  furnished. 
They  all  are  sleek  and  happy-eyed 

Their  gratitude  they  cannot  utter, 
But,  since  their  souls  are  satisfied 

We're  simply  swamped  with  cream  and  butter! 


[144] 


IT  CAN'T  BE  DONE 


IT  CAN'T  BE  DONE 

WE    remember    when    we    saw    "  The    Lights    o' 

London  " 

That  it  never  struck  the  audience  as  odd, 
When  the  villain,  badly  baffled,  and  in  danger  of  the 
scaffold 

Quoth,  sincerely  and  convincingly,  "  my !  " 

There  was  something  in  a  few  well-chosen  cuss- 
words 

Which  was  pleasing  to  the  proletariat; 
Three  or  four  strong  imprecations  gave  a  zip  to 

situations 
That  would  otherwise  have  fallen  pretty  flat. 

But  they're  getting  more  meticulous  in  London, 

When  the  hero  cops  the  lady  and  the  pelf, 
There  is  never  any  thrill  in  the  remonstrance  of  the 

villain, 

For  he's  forced  to  do  his  cursing  to  himself. 
Though      convulsed    with    boiling    fury    by    his 

troubles, 

He  must  guard  against  the  slightest  verbal  slips 
For  a  governmental  power  will  confine  him  in  the 

Tower 
If  he  even  frames  a  swear-word  with  his  lips. 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


They  are  sending  lynx-eyed  censors  to  the  movies; 

Psycho-analyists  they  are — remorseless  birds 
Who   derive  keen  satisfaction  as  they  watch  the 
drama's  action 

In  deciphering  a  man's  unuttered  words, 
And  if  any  actor,  moved  by  inspiration 

To  pronounce  a  single  pantomimic  d — -n !  * 

Just  to  make  the  scene  intenser,  is  detected  by  the 

censor, 
He  discovers  that  he's  got  into  a  jam. 

Now  we  strongly  disapprove  of  bar-room  language 

Such  as  thieves  and  gunmen  bandy  in  their  rage, 
But  mild  oaths  in  moderation  used  to  voice  strong 
indignation 

Have  been  heard  since  the  invention  of  the  stage. 
And  we  think  an  absolutely  cussless  movie, 

Though  with  fascinating  crime  it  overflowed 
And  was  perfect  in  construction,  and  a  masterly  pro 
duction, 

Would  go  busted  on  the  second  night  it  showed. 

*  Censored. 


[146] 


THE  LOST  VOICE 


THE  LOST  VOICE 

SEATED  one  day  in  the  office 

Distracted  and  ill  at  ease, 
I  wildly  jiggled  the  phone-hook 

And  Central  said,  "  Number,  please  ?"• 
I  know  not  what  number  I  gave  her, 

JTis  vanished  beyond  recall. 
I  know  I  was  flabbergasted 

That  she  answered  the  phone  at  alll 


It  filled  me  with  sheer  amazement, 

It  filled  me  with  fierce  delight, 
For  when  she  repeated  the  number 

She  actually  got  it  right ! 
I  glued  the  phone  to  my  eardrum, 

And  my  heart  beat  high  and  fast 
As  I  said  to  myself,  "  Eureka  1 

I  shall  get  that  call  at  last." 


I  waited,  and  waited,  and  waited; 

Once  more  I  seized  the  hook 
Between  my  thumb  and  finger 

And  shook,  and  shook,  and  shook. 
[1471 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


But  I  listened  and  listened  vainly, 
The  sun  had  waned  and  set 

And  the  stars  were  out,  but  Central 
Had  made  no  answer  yet. 

v 

It  may  be  she'll  answer  some  time, 
But  I  wonder  now  and  then 

If  only  when  I'm  in  heaven 
Shall  I  hear  that  voice  again. 


THE  MOVIE  SUBSTITUTE 


THE  MOVIE  SUBSTITUTE 
(His  Plaint) 

You  have  sobbed  when  the  heroine  lady 

Said  "Bah!  "  with  a  touch  of  disdain, 
As  the  villain  (the  cur)  bound  a  rope  around  her 

And  tied  her  in  front  of  a  train. 
The  debacle  likely  to  happen 

You  dreaded  extremely  to  see, 
But  there   wasn't   a   Jane   there   in   front   of  the 
train, 

That's  the  job  that  they  pass  out  to  me ! 


You  have  wept  when  you  gazed  at  the  hero 

As  he  leaped  from  the  top  of  the  cliff, 
u  Ah  me,"  you  have  said,  "  when  he  lights  he'll  be 

dead, 

That  villain's  a  murderous  stiff." 
But  the  hero,  at  that  exact  moment 
Was  home  and  in  bed  and  asleep, 
Those  leading  part  chumps  are  not  cast  for  the 

jumps 

I'm  paged  when  the  boss  wants  a  leap. 
[149] 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


And  when  there's  a  general  rough-house 

And  someone  has  got  to  get  hit 
With  a  beer  keg  or  rock,  good  and  hard  on  his  block, 

The  real  movie  actors  all  quit. 
And  when  they're  a  little  bit  careless, 

As  they  frequently  happen  to  be, 
And  a  man's  put  to  bed  with  a  hole  in  his  head, 

I'm  the  boy  that  the  doc  comes  to  see. 

They  put  me  in  cages  with  lions, 

Who  think  it's  a  nice  little  jest 
To  paw  me  around  as  I  lie  on  the  ground 

And  practice  new  bites  on  my  chest. 
Whenever  in  case  of  a  mix-up 

Some  gent  may  get  hurt  pretty  bad, 
The  actors  aren't  there — they're  too  easy  to  scare 

And  too  valuable- — I  am  the  lad  1 


[150] 


THE  VAMP  PASSES 


THE  VAMP  PASSES 

Vamp  plays  are  no  longer  popular  with  photo 
play  audiences. — A  MOVIE  SCOUT. 

No  longer  the  wife  of  the  hero 

Need  swallow  a  piteous  sigh, 
And  stifle  the  storm  that  convulses  her  form 

As  she  kisses  her  husband  good-by. 
No  longer  her  wife's  intuition 

Can  waken  the  fear  in  her  breast 
That  he's  going  to  decamp  with  a  red-headed  Vamp 

On  the  nine-fifty  train  for  the  West. 

Oh!    The  Vamp  was  a  merciless  creature, 

Whenever  she  met  a  young  wife 
She  would  powder  her  nose,  strike  an  insolent-pose 

And  sneer  (and  they  sneer  like  a  knife !) 
And  the  kindest  and  lovingest  husbands 

Who  never  before  had  backslid 
Would  lamp  at  the  Vamp  like  a  rah-rahing  scamp, 

And  coyly  observe,  "  Oh,  you  kid!  " 

No  opulent  home  could  be  happy: 

The  Vamp's  subterranean  stealth 
In  the  very  first  reel  never  failed  to  reveal 

That  the  husband  was  rolling  in  wealth, 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


And,  putting  her  gauziest  dress  on, 

She  looked  and  she  looked  and  sjie  looked 

At  the  poor  millionaire,  who  would  never  beware 
Until  he  was  hopelessly  hooked. 

I  grieve  that  the  Vamp  has  departed, 

Though  of  course  I  could  never  approve 
When  she  harrowed  the  lives  of  those  innocent  wives 

Still  she  DID  keep  events  on  the  move, 
And,  watching  her  witching  behavior, 

I  have  frequently  hankered  to  see 
Just  how  hard  I'd  resist  if  a  Vamp  should  insist, 

On  working  the  Vamp  stuff  on  me ! 


[152] 


NELL— AND  OTHERS 


Douffhboy  Ditties: 

NELL-AND  OTHERS 

I  WASN'T  fightin'  for  money;  I  wasn't  fightin'  for 

fame, 
Or  to  save  the  world  for  ^Democrats,  as  some  o' 

them  statesmen  claim; 
But  I  waded  into  the   Boches  whenever  I   got  a 

chance, 
An'  kept  'em  jumpin'  backward  till  they  jumped 

plumb  out  o'  France. 
There  wasn't  much  time  for  thinkin'  when  the  shot 

an'  the  shrapnel  fell, 
But  I  reckon  I  was  fightin'  for  a  girl  o'  the  name  o' 

Nell 
(An'  a  girl  named  Sue,  an'  a  girl  named  Mame,  an' 

a  girl  named  Flo  as  well) . 

I  see  what  they  done  to  Flanders,  an'  it  kind  o' 

occurred  to  me 
That  we  didn't  want  no  Boches  on  our  own  side  of 

the  sea, 
For  they  didn't  act  like  humans,  an  'they  didn't  fight 

like  men, 
An'  the  safest  way  to  deal  with  'em,  was  to  head  'em 

home  again. 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


Just  what  I  thought  in  the  thick  of  it  is  thunderin' 

hard  to  tell, 
But  I  reckon  that  I  was  thinkin'  of  a  girl  o'  the 

name  o'  Nell 
(An*  a  girl  named  Jane,  an'  a  girl  named  Maud,  an* 

a  girl  named  May  as  well). 

There's  always  a  little  girl  at  home  that  you  sort  o' 

wish  was  there 
When  a  little  General  comes  along  an'  hands  you  a 

Craw  de  Gare. 
There's  always  a  girl  that  you  hope  to  meet  when 

the  troopship  hits  the  pier 
When  you've  seen  the  last  o  'the  kind  of  Janes  that 

y'  kid  with  over  here. 
There's  always  a  girl  you  are  homesick  for  when 

you've  been  away  a  spell, 
An'  that's  the  girl  I  was  fightin'  for — a  girl  o'  the 

name  o'  Nell, 
(An'  a  girl  named  Lou,  an'  a  girl  named  Ide,  an'  a 

girl  named  Bess  as  well). 


[154] 


IN  LINE 


Doughboy  Ditties: 

IN  LINE 

IT  ain't  policing  the  roads  o'  France 

(Which  we  do  with  a  spade  an'  pick) ; 
It  ain't  the  washin'  o'  shirts  and  pants, 

When  the  mud  is  especial  thick; 
It  ain't  a-keepin'  the  Boche  at  work 

In  his  towns  on  the  rollin'  Rhine. 
What  gets  us  sore,  now  there  ain't  no  war, 

Is  standin'  around  in  line. 

For  we  stand  in  line  at  inspection 

An'  we  stand  in  line  for  our  slum; 
An'  we  stand  in  line  for  our  mug  of  wine 

When  the  water  is  on  the  bum. 
We  stand  in  line  at  the  "  Y  "  canteen 

For  doughnuts  an'  pie  an'  things. 
An'  I  kind  o'  fear  we  will  still  be  here 

Till  we  stand  in  line  for  our  wings. 

There's  nothin'  a  feller  would  class  as  fun 

In  bossin'  a  Boche  around; 
The  gutteral  talk  of  the  average  Hun 

Is  hardly  a  cheerin'  sound. 

[155] 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


But  we'd  do  all  that  an'  a  lot  beside, 

With  never  a  growl  or  whine. 
What  keeps  us  plumb  dissatisfied 

Is  standin'  around  in  line. 

We  will  stand  in  line  for  our  letters 

If  the  mail  gets  in  to-day. 
We  will  stand  in  line  till  the  Cap  can  sign 

The  orders  to  draw  our  pay. 
An'  it  looks  as  if  we'd  be  dreamin'  still 

Of  a  certain  street  in  the  States 
Where  the  bright  lights  shine,  when  we  stand  in  line 

For  our  turn  at  the  Pearly  Gates. 


THOUGHTS  ON  PIE 


Doughboy  Ditties: 

THOUGHTS  ON  PIE 

AT  night,  when  we  camped  by  the  old  chateau, 

An'  the  yellow  moon  looked  down, 
I  used  to  dream  of  a  girl  I  know — 

A  girl  in  the  old  home  town. 
I  dreamed  o'  the  words  she  said  to  me 

The  day  that  we  said  good-by, 
When  I  left  her  to  cross  the  rollin'  sea — 

But  mostly  I  dreamed  o'  pie. 

For  there's  girls  in  England  and  girls  in  France 

An'  girls  on  the  windin'  Rhine; 
You  are  always  meetin'  a  lovin'  glance 

Anywheres  up  the  line. 
You  can  always  sit  in  a  game  o'  hearts 

Where  the  ante's  a  gentle  sigh, 
But  the  scarcest  thing  in  these  foreign  parts 

Is  a  hunk  o'  regular  pie. 

An'  now  that  the  packet  is  headed  home 
An'  the  lights  fade  on  the  shore, 

As  I  watch  the  gloaming  begin  to  gloam 
I  am  dreamin'  my  dreams  once  more. 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


Again  I  dream  o'  that  last  good-by 
Ere  I  sailed  o'er  the  rollin'  brine, 

But  mostly  I  dream  o'  the  big  mince  pie 
That  soon  will  be  mine — all  mine. 

There'll  be  always  girls,  if  you  look  around, 

Wherever  your  feet  may  stray; 
Whether  you're  outward  or  homeward  bound, 

They'll  never  be  far  away. 
But  when  you're  guardin'  a  dreary  post 

Or  watchin'  the  shrapnel  fly, 
The  thing  that  you  sure  will  miss  the  most 

Is  that  good  old  home-made  pie. 


HEALTHY 


Doughboy  Ditties: 

HEALTHY 

An  army  doctor  has  assured  members  of  the  Army 
of  Occupation  that  the  climate  along  the  Rhine  is 
more  healthful  than  that  of  America. 

When  we're  sick  o'  keepin'  watch  on  country  cross 
roads, 

Lest  some  Captain's  private  flivver  go  astray, 
When  we're  sick  of  cleaning  skillets  in  these  greasy 

German  billets, 

And  are  hungerin'  to  see  the  U.S.A., 
Then  the  Doc  he  comes  along  an'  looks  us  over, 

An'  he  grins  at  all  the  kickers  in  the  line, 
Sayin'  to  us,  "  What's  the  matter?    Ain't  you  dough 
boys  gettin'  fatter? 

Don't  you   know   the   climate's   healthy   on   the 
Rhine?" 

"Healthy  climate,"  says  the  Doc.     Well,  who'll 

deny  it? 

We  can  eat  our  weight  in  chow  at  every  meal. 
But  when  settin'  round  an'  pinin'  for  to  see  the  home- 
lights  shinin' 
It  don't  make  a  lot  o'  difference  how  you  feel. 


MORE  TRUTH  THAN  POETRY 


1  ain't  longin'  for  pneumonia  nor  nothin' 
Bein'  sick  would  never  fill  me  full  o'  cheer. 

But  I'd  just  as  leave  or  leaver  have  the  "  flu  "  or 

typhoid  fever 
Back  in  Harlem  as  be  healthy  over  here. 

I  admit  that  I  could  lick  my  weight  in  wildcats, 
But  there  ain't  no  wildcats  over  here  to  lick. 
There  is  nothin'  here  more  thrillin'  than  this  drillin', 

drillin',  drillin', 

An'  it  makes  you  sore  to  think  you  gotta  stick. 
There  is  things  in  life  beside  a  healthy  climate, 

There  is  things  that's  just  as  good  as  bein'  well — 
Nothin'  doin',  nothin'  stirrin';  nothin'  worth  your 

while  occurrin' — - 
It  is  healthy — sure  it's  healthy — but  it's  hell! 


THE  END 


[160] 


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AUto     J-O   IvOv 

fips*    f  IS42P 

RECEIVED  BY 

JUN    2    1944 

SEP^G  1984 

18Feb'64KW 

CIRCULATION  DEPT 

,  ,t,v  ..  'i>  ••      - 

ICD     /.'M-of'i 

INTERL.' 

UNIV.  OF  C 

•      i    Anrlinr^^ 

,\^n      c 

Reeved  in  W^ 

.rn^VC^ 

ht.r 

LD  21-100m-8,'34 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


